Bob taught himself to play guitar,
hoping to one day become a star.
Earned his calluses, learned his notes,
while we listened and smoked his dope,
wailing on his Axe till we went home.
Then his Fender he traded,
bought an amp, and graduated,
tracks on his arm beneath his gown,
playing sleazy bars all over town.
Two years, he’s a local legend.
Bob’s gigs picked up, so did his habit.
The more he played he had to have it.
A style all his own, Rock N Roll charm.
More and more poison went into his arm.
He died one night in his parent’s basement.
M. Zane McClellan
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