The Guitar

With your brown vintage leather strap, You are wrapped around me, One hand on your neck, And the other slowly going up and down your strings from low to high, Then I begin to stare at your body, The artwork of many bands that cover your ebony finish, As my eyes move up you have a bridge, This bridge that holds a saddle, A saddle that has six gold, nickel wound strings on it, As you go even further up you see all the wears and tears, From the various times you have been struck by picks, And your sound hole, from which you resonate your glorious sound, Is the area that is damaged the most. The second half of you is made of a long mahogany neck, Covered with twenty one cold steel frets, And with stone colored circles to indicate which parts of you to play, The strings go up your neck as well, And as my eyes continue to move up they see your headstock, Where you proudly hold 6 steel machine heads, That holds the strings in line to play your beautiful sounds, And on the top of your headstock, You wear the Ibanez brand logo, With its black letters and gold outline, You wear it without shame, As if you wear proud of having a tattoo on your forehead, And wouldn’t care if the whole world would stare. Then I go back to your mahogany neck, Place my index finger in a bar shape, On your fourth, third and second string, Your nickel-wounded strings touch my skin, And it feels comfortable, Almost as if it belongs there, Then I grab that blue Fender pick which you hate so much, And strum.