A guitarist can never hear the anxious
river of blood through his arteries,
Never hear the chaotic clatter of his mind,
Never hear the nervous
rhythmic beats of his heart,
Nor the rumble of his hungry stomach.
Neither can he hear
the homeless Child cry, the Clowns laugh,
the Lions roar, the Guns click,
And the Chickens celebrate.
Lost in the F-hole,
he blindly hits the E-minor pentatonic
and returns to the G major.
An A-minor with a B7
and a C-minor;
The G-string breaks apart
with a loud clang.
And he plays a
C-major chord.
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