Ode on a Six-String

   Guitars are still the coolest thing,

   That you can do with wood and string.

The sound they make is earthy yet metallic,

The shape of them is feminine but phallic.

      They lend an air of cool,

      To geek or god or fool;

   Extensions of our human soul,

   Embodiment of rock ‘n’ roll;

Within each one is waiting to be found,

A vast, orchestral universe of sound.

   Guitars can cast a darker spell,

   To send their poets down to hell;

They steal the Devil's tunes and then return,

And on the way, guitars and poets burn.

      A sonic purple haze,

      To startle and amaze,

   Is what remains for us to hear;

   The poets never reappear,

Forever lost beneath the aural waves,

They take their unplayed music to their graves.

   Guitars: to you we raise our hats,

   You Les Pauls, Flying-Vs and Strats.

Though simply strummed by mediocre hands,

Or held aloft above the greatest bands,

      You make the world your own,

      With each celestial tone,

   And wear the instrumental crown,

   While lesser instruments bow down.

A sonic mesmeriser like no other,

And everyone who plays you is a brother.