My Old Guitar Poem by Paul Reed

It has been with me for over forty years
Most of that, admittedly in a garage
And I never could play it
My guitar-playing talent you could rightly disparage;

It only has three strings left of the original six
And is badly in need of a tune
‘WISHBONE ASH' engraved on it with biro
I used to strum it and croon

Way back in the seventies
When Wishbone Ash were king
But I must remind you that
I could never play the damn thing;

In a concerted attempt to clear out the place
And several journeys to the skip
I ventured again into the garage
To load the car for another trip

There it was, hiding away at the back
In the most inaccessible place
Behind tables and packages and bookcases
Resting it's dusty face

Meaning forever to keep it
I took it and hung it on a nail
But within 30 seconds
I emitted out a huge wail

For the guitar had slipped its moorings
It's hanging place it had fled
It plummeted vertically downwards
And hit me on the head

Now that guitar held a lot of sweet memories
Although I couldn't play a note
It was a part of my growing up
But I cast a deciding vote

Enough was enough!
And though in my throat was a lump
I shoved it in the back of the car
And took it to the dump