What am I to do
with a sound that heeds no muse? -
with this devil-red guitar
that wears one string one octave high?
I'm lying; I knew well
that its sonic-auburn spell
would disappear: now dirty bells
are all the thing can ring tonight.
The strings were fine before;
now they slam like metal doors -
now, the music is a chore
that bores and breaks my greedy hands.
Oh, yes, dirty; yes, my home;
yes, my beautiful, my known -
for no cause at all, I've thrown
away my timbre; killed my friend,
yet all my voice desires
is for the broken, the retired;
for the love I chose to rend:
for old strings