I Rather Enjoy Being Played
By different lovers I’ve been kept,
some skillful and a few inept.
I always respond, unafraid.
I rather enjoy being played.
A Spaniard picked me up one time.
His classic strumming was sublime.
Notes poured from me like a cascade.
I rather enjoy being played.
That man released me, and soon I
was picked up by a strange punk guy
who stroked me roughly. Though betrayed,
I rather enjoy being played.
My strings broke often from his touch,
yet thrilled was I by his thrum. Such
unique new tunes from me were made.
I rather enjoy being played.
His sister held me awkwardly,
but then she sang so beautifully
it mattered not my sound would fade. . .
I rather enjoy being played.
She and her brother gave me to
some plucking fools without a clue
till an artiste came to my aid.
I rather enjoy being played.
He pressed my frets, this handsome boy.
My stings were vibrating with joy.
I climaxed with his smooth glissade.
I rather enjoy being played.
With him I hope to have remained
in years to come. His love’s unfeigned.
Although I know at times he’s strayed,
I rather enjoy being played.
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