In a dusty shop on a cobbled street,
A guitar lay silent, its tale bittersweet.
Strings frayed, its wooden heart scarred,
Once the muse of a wandering bard.
The bard had roamed from town to town,
Through sunlit trails and skies that frown.
With every chord, the world would pause,
He played for joy, a noble cause.
He played in taverns with creaking floors,
In markets too with slamming doors.
He’d miss a note, then play it twice,
And claim the “echo” made it nice.
He’d drop his pick in mugs of ale,
Get chased by ducks along his trail.
Forget the words of half his songs,
Then hum and hope no one caught on.
He once performed atop a crate,
That snapped beneath him (not so great).
He stood back up, adjusted clothes,
Brushed off dust and struck a pose.
Crowds adored these earnest tries,
His crooked grin and his hopeful eyes.
He lived a life off and far,
Dragging along his old guitar.
But seasons change and stories fade
The Bard grew old, less parade.
One day he simply wandered on
And by the next, the guitar was gone.
Now in the shop, beneath the grime,
It waits, unplayed, worn by time.
It’s glory days stand afar,
It sits there now, a lost guitar.
May 20
May 20, 2026 at 7:08 PM UTC
In a dusty shop on a cobbled street,
A guitar lay silent, its tale bittersweet.
Strings frayed, its wooden heart scarred,
Once the muse of a wandering bard.
The bard had roamed from town to town,
Through sunlit trails and skies that frown.
With every chord, the world would pause,
He played for joy, a noble cause.
He played in taverns with creaking floors,
In markets too with slamming doors.
He’d miss a note, then play it twice,
And claim the “echo” made it nice.
He’d drop his pick in mugs of ale,
Get chased by ducks along his trail.
Forget the words of half his songs,
Then hum and hope no one caught on.
He once performed atop a crate,
That snapped beneath him (not so great).
He stood back up, adjusted clothes,
Brushed off dust and struck a pose.
Crowds adored these earnest tries,
His crooked grin and his hopeful eyes.
He lived a life off and far,
Dragging along his old guitar.
But seasons change and stories fade
The Bard grew old, less parade.
One day he simply wandered on
And by the next, the guitar was gone.
Now in the shop, beneath the grime,
It waits, unplayed, worn by time.
It’s glory days stand afar,
It sits there now, a lost guitar.