Going down, down into the city,
Trading your face with those around
'Til no one can tell it's you they're screwing
To the menacing wail of the guitar's sound.
Going out, out on a limb,
Putting all your pennies into one little jar.
The interest you earn is less than nothing.
Your only feedback is from the guitar.
Going up, up into the air,
The only question you want answered is, "Why?"
To say that word starts you rapidly falling,
While the guitar screams its distorted cry.
Going back, back to the start,
Naive is forever, but you know it can't last.
How can you ever have hope for a future?
Your guitar is silent, far in the past.
© 1988 by Rick Hines.
Material may not be used without the artist's written permission.