Of calloused fingers bleeding out the melody

That he, in his innocence, thought would rock the world.

The battered plectrum in his bedside drawer

Retains the thumbprint of his pitiable grasp at fame.

'Play in a Day' and 'The Book of a Thousand Chords'

Are cobwebbed and yellowing underneath his bed.

But on the pillow rests a head still scheming,

Dreaming of the glory years that may still lie ahead.