I walked into a music store in melancholy,

And sat myself down at a piano, trying to be jolly.

My fingers played a jovial tune, Grieg and Ravel,

But still I hadn’t managed to tune the part unwell.

So I followed a sign “guitars upstairs,”

A wish to fall into hope’s latest dares.

I picked up an acoustic and felt no more pleasure,

“You’re playing it too hard,” a voice of leather measured,

“Relax; strum, don’t pluck.”

So I put down the guitar and decided

I hated music.