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The battered Fender sleeps in the closet,
Nestled in her hardshell velvet-lined bed
Beneath a flannel drowsing-blanket,
Enshrouded; music's first kiss remembered.
She dreams in chords, her life surrendered,
Frets worn, neck warped, body dented and scarred;
But she sings in her sleep, a ragged bard.
© 1996 by J. M. Pressley