The old guitar hung on the pawn shop wall
patiently waiting for a blues man's touch.
Tuned and so ready to answer the call,
pick scratched body, scarred from strokes played with such
passion and joy or endless pain and tears
in all those honky tonks for all those years.

Cigarette burns darken the neck to show
neglect of another blues man who wailed
between sips of beer. Only those who know,
only those who've cried, only those who've failed
can pierce the soul with sharpened words, well aimed.
"Oh, I lost love or was unfairly blamed."

A sign below it, braced by ballet shoes
"If it ain't been pawned... It can't play no blues."