Stinkin' piece of useless wood, with strings of steel and noisy tones,
Why must one labour thus, for melody from your magic bones,
Your sound's so soothing if into the right hands you fall,
The fingers mortal but the song strummed... not at all.
How long must the wait be, before you play my chosen theme,
What God-awful patience will it take, to live out this cherished dream,
The day the world outside is like a laughable side actor,
The day when my guitar is all I need for heaven 'n' thereafter.