dusty and stained ignobly with bird droppings,
out of tune long ago like his dreams
as he thinks of the band and where they are now:
one is dead, the others? who knows.
Oh, they were going all the way to the top,
world tours; Japan, USA
but they only made it to Pontypridd.
He thought he was Hendrix and the lyrics profound
but it's like comparing Pam Ayres to Ezra Pound.
Yes, the guitar in the loft lies forlorn
yet it was such a different story then,
caressed tenderly like a lover
taking him from the asylum of life.
He found a photograph of the band
with Zappa moustaches and flares,
optimistic behind a moody façade.
He tunes the guitar and a string snaps
but close his eyes and begins to play
transporting back to days far away.