I see you’ve got the look down
and I smell you’ve got the smell down
(ain’t showered in weeks I reckon)
and with the nonchallantness of your grin
and the way that perfect Ibanez shines
in the late afternoon sun, I would almost
see you hopping trains right out of here.

No worries, no stress, everything in the
little hand-sewn bag that you’ve slung over
the one shoulder, just right. Absolutely picturesque.
I would almost bet the money that you’d
had to run from railroad bulls, especially
when that hobo tune comes ’round
on that guitar again.

Everything checks out
but that one little thing:
That Ibanez is just too damn clean.