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King of Clowns
You laughed too hard in 1996/
Thought I'd trip and stay down for kicks/
But I climbed back up, twice the size/
Now I shred, watch the sparks fly/
My drummer joked, said guitars are lame/
Left him roadside, questioning fame/
Why does a guitar need a case, he asked/
To contain its stringed up past/
Steel strings bend, the pick obeys/
My solos melt minds in dazzling rays/
You call it noise; I call it fate/
Crowds roar, my riffs attack/
Like a clown with a vengeance strapped to his back/
Why did the guitar cross the road/
To escape tuning abuse overload/
Strumming stainless, lyrics sharp/
Every chord bite, every note barks/
What's a guitarist least favorite job/
A fretting accountant, stuck in a fog/
Clowns don't cry, we shred and slay/
This guitar doesn't play, it dictates the day/
Why did the guitar get detention in class/
It couldn't stop playing tricks so crass/
Now I roll into your town, no disguise/
My solos make statues blink their eyes/
One last joke before I'm done/
Why don't guitars ever tell lies/
Because their strings keep them strung/
Copyright ©
Michael Fulkerson
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