Men Who Owe Me Money and Leave Their Guitars

Men with faded dreams sing and strum

Laugh when they lose to the beat of a drum

Crave to be known, to believe to become

Run when I do, ‘though they don’t know what from

But they need the connection

Don’t wanna get too far

So they take my money

But they don’t take their guitar



Men with murky pasts, covered in stains

Make sweet music running through my veins

Give and take their passions and pains

Escape from the light when illusion wanes

But they need their bounties

And they need their scars

So they leave owing me money

But they leave me their guitars



I can see myself at ninety

With a pawn shop for axes

So many stealing trust

And leaving these taxes

Hit and run

Catch the breeze

The smoking gun’s

Got strings and keys



You claim you’re a giver, but you’re a devil-may-care-taker

You only save what you can own, a fool’s gold raker

You need your Sleeping Beauty, pretend your kisses wake her

Just a different kind of user, another sort of faker

You tell me you’re different

But I see just what you are

You’re a man who’s gonna owe me money

And leave me his guitar

© 2002 Bondrov Music

Eventually, I permanently and completely disbanded the row of guitars in my hall and replaced it with a piece of furniture. Their guitars are gone, and mine are rebuilt and playing beautifully (for that story, read about Peekamoose Guitars on the Links page). It has all been very healing, and I no longer see myself at ninety still holding on to other people's abandoned dreams. (My vision at the time was an album cover with me looking like Miss Havesham out of "Great Expectations" in front of a pawn shop with rows and rows of guitars in the window.)