Warped
The six strings on the wall
Don’t mean a thing anymore
The poster behind them
Doesn’t remind me of Strawberry Fields anymore
(or childhood car rides back from grandma’s)
I know longer plug in my father’s old record player
(Just to hear Fat City)
But still every time I hear a melody without lyrics
I make them up
And they are always about you
Or a girl like you,
Names don’t matter
It’s the thought
that I will never change.
It’s all because of you
You’ve always liked my eyes
But you’ve never tried to read them
You’ve always laughed
And I guess I look away
Maybe it’s my fault,
I just don’t want to stare.
The neck is twisted
But it has been that way for as long as I have had it
My mother left it in the garage
And let it find its own shape.
But if I had a choice,
I would have a straight neck.
I would have new nylon strings.
I would be at my full potential.
Each string,
Harsh when plucked,
Doesn’t mean a thing to me anymore,
And my Michael Omartian record may as well
Be warped too.
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