His Guitar

I spend more time with his guitar
Than I ever did with him
He was on his way out
When I was on my way in
I grew up on the stories
Of the music that he made
Now I follow in his footsteps
With the Gibson that he played

Granny said her daddy bought it
At a pawnshop in our hometown
He’d play it at the Rendezvous
When the weekend rolled around
She saw my love of music
And passed it down to me
Giving me a chance
To carry on its legacy

This guitar holds the secret
Of first chord that he strummed
Did he sit and pick for hours
Until his fingers were numb?
Was it just a hobby
Or did he want to be a star?
These are things I wonder
When I’m playing his guitar

He dug grooves in this Rosewood
Long before I was born
I can almost see his fingers
By the way the neck is worn
It’s full of cracks and scratches
And steep in memories
When I’m playing this old flat top,
I can feel him here with me

This guitar holds the secret
Of first chord that he strummed
Did he sit and pick for hours
Until his fingers were numb?
Was it just a hobby
Or did he want to be a star?
These are things I wonder
When I’m playing his guitar

I’ve had lots of offers,
but I’m quick to let them know
That no amount of money
Could make me let it go

This guitar holds the secret
Of first chord that he strummed
Did he sit and pick for hours
Until his fingers were numb?
Was it just a hobby
Or did he want to be a star?
These are things I wonder
When I’m playing his guitar

I spend more time with his guitar
Than I ever did with him