In a town with little good, I stayed in a cabin forged of wood.
With nothing much to fill my days, my joy came in a guitar case.
When I wasn’t strumming strings, records were the next best things.
The sound booming through the space, with drums, guitars, lyrics, and bass.
The vinyl turning right on pace, a smile formed upon my face.
The songs put me in a better place.
Although this music I did adore, their singers were to be no more.
Without them here my hope was displaced, songs of the past I would retrace.
A cardinal flew inside and stayed, his talons drawn and wings splayed.
When the records fell I braced, as the bird threw them from my bookcase.
The bird dove down and strummed the bass; the bird was a former guitar ace.
He was in a better place.
A second bird entered and struck a match, released it on a lumber patch.
The two worked together destroying my space, my prized collection they would deface.
They broke the records one and all, etching ‘James’ into the wall.
I tried to save my records older than lace, but the birds beat me in the race.
My collection reduced to a disgrace, the birds were to stay setting the pace.
Forever tending the fireplace.