The Guitar

I used to dream of silver strings
I was ten years old
The mailman left a cardboard box
‘Bout a half mile down the road

I didn’t sleep a wink that night
I knew that it would come
$3.95 from Sears Roebuck
Neck like a wagon tongue

I had to pay for it myself
Doing farming chores
That was fine by me you know
I would have paid much more

A ticket to the whole wide world
For a limping little boy
That ragged out flattop six-string
That’s where I found my voice

Working on the family farm
And not much time to play
Couldn’t get that box in tune
’Til a preacher came our way

One night after suppertime
He tuned up my guitar
That righteous Reverend Maiden
I still thank my lucky stars

Laid up for the summer
To fix a crippled foot
Couldn’t walk and couldn’t work
And couldn’t pick that good

I played in G and sang in C
I couldn’t get it right
’Til it finely came together
On an autumn Blue Ridge night

My mom was washing dishes
And she almost dropped a plate
She stopped what she was doing
And said “Son, that sounded great”

I could see her standing, smiling
By that old coal light
When I sang “There’s an Empty Cot
In the Bunkhouse Tonight”

There’s an empty cot in the bunkhouse tonight
There’s a pinto, his head hangin’ low
There’s an empty cot in the bunkhouse tonight
Limpy’s gone, where the good cowboys go