I walked into a shop one day, <br />in a dusty corner stood an old guitar. <br />Dust was playing its only refrain now; <br />no one took much notice <br />of it standing there <br />with several broken strings <br />looking worn and forlorn. <br />As I stood and looked at it, I <br /> wondered what stories it could tell. <br />Were you played by someone famous, <br />and how many footlights did it see? On the other hand, <br />were you just strummed by someone <br />dreaming of stardom out of reach? <br />How far did this dreamer get, oh, old dusty guitar. <br />How much I would love to hear your story, <br />but I have to leave much to my regret, <br />but if your still hear tomorrow, <br />and I have enough money. <br />You will no longer be <br />an old dusty guitar, <br />for you will belong to me.<br /><br />David Harris<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-old-dusty-guitar/
