That guitar rasps like a smoker’s cough.
It was always in our house, see
and everyone who came in scraped some varnish off
didn’t they. Well, one day
it disappears; it gets half-inched
They put a story in the newspaper
about how it’s been pinched:
‘Local pop group looking for guitar’.
This bloke phones me up about the ‘reward’.
He wants a hundred quid – frigging liberty.
Next thing, someone’s on the doorstep, this bird.
That’s how it came back to me.
That guitar sings to me like Leda’s swan.
Next week, it’s going back up the M1.