Guitar practice was always down in the school basement.
I would show up for practice, my guitar case in hand
And carefully place my sheet music on a metal music stand.
There were just four of us would-be musicians that year.

We dutifully tuned our guitars as our teacher played a single note.
We progressed to practicing our chords, my fingers on each string.
I was a mediocre player; what I liked to do was sing.
I did love the cherry wood scent of my guitar.

That afternoon turned dark in the heart of this fair land.
There was a muffled announcement; then the sound of some girl crying.
“President Kennedy has been shot; they say that he is dying!”
Our class was canceled abruptly, for a reason we understood.

I never went back to Guitar class and I never played again.
For months my guitar waited, patiently, with its sweet scent of cherry wood.
My mother finally persuaded me to sell it; I said that I understood.
Camelot had vanished in the mists, and Johnny would never be good.