Telecaster

A Telecaster’s
what I need

a no-frills slab of easy
made to be played hard

Something venerable
that can sting and scream

Something born to run a straight line
from chicken-picking country

right up a stairway to heaven
(even though I don’t believe in such a thing)

I need a maple telephone
because I’ve got to call London back

I need to write a syrupy note
to all I’ve ever loved

and although my big blond dreadnought girl
is always at my side

I can’t write everything I want to say
with the same pen all the time

So give me the ancient quill
and let me do my thing

my Isley thing
my countless bar-band idol thing

let me lay my head back
in Leo’s arms

let me chop at the rhythm
and let that baby scream

sting
and sing