Dust was playing its only refrain now;
no one took much notice
of it standing there
with several broken strings
looking worn and forlorn.
As I stood and looked at it, I
wondered what stories it could tell.
Were you played by someone famous,
and how many footlights did it see? On the other hand,
were you just strummed by someone
dreaming of stardom out of reach?
How far did this dreamer get, oh, old dusty guitar.
How much I would love to hear your story,
but I have to leave much to my regret,
but if your still hear tomorrow,
and I have enough money.
You will no longer be
an old dusty guitar,
for you will belong to me.