I would sit beside it whenever I liked,
I would touch down its ribs whenever I liked.
I would play my favorite songs on it,
whenever I liked,
I would keep it safe and be by its side.
I just thought of painting it red,
But somehow I liked its blue-black shade.
Its metallic shining six row chains,
That shone like the sparkling silver of rains.
But now it lay broken down,
Dead like a shooting star
My old blue six stringed guitar.