MY G STRING IS BROKEN

My Writing Life

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MY G STRING IS BROKEN
We slept in a pension where I tuned my guitar
My G string had broke when she said ‘have you come far?’
From Wexford to Paris, I’m thinking, how far is that in the dark?
I suppose five hundred kilometres would be near the mark.
Then she reached over and twanged at another string
‘How long do you intend to mess about with that old thing?’
I felt like telling her ‘that old thing’ had aged better than she had
And its antecedents weren’t at all bad

But I just said ‘That thing was plucked by Elvis, I’ll have you know,
When he was bopping out Blue Suede Shoes all those yonks ago!’

This ‘thing’ didn’t feel quite finished when I read it again, so I revisited it overnight. I think it reads better now

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