I’m a pawn shop guitar man.
They don’t let me in uptown.
I don’t get around downtown much either.
I’ve been waiting for the bus,
but the buses don’t run.
It’s okay.
It could be worse.
I’ve got this guitar.
Paint’s a little worn.
Six strings.
Twenty frets.
A universe.
Lift it from the case.
Start to play.
Testifying beneath the lights.
Notes soaring.
Blood on the bridge.
Burning down every lie.
Every defeat.
Slept in the graveyard,
but I’m not dead yet.
I’m a pawn shop guitar man.
And I am alive.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
