my Dad's old Gibson,
Or Gibs, I like to call him,
is a grizzled old man,
with a scratch in his throat,
with wrinkled red cheeks,
a sort of wisdom about him,
that only comes with age,
and has seen better days.
He’s a war veteran,
that’s seen the combat,
believed in the promises,
that were made.
but learned over the years,
that promises are empty,
when the bloody battles wage.
He's aged artist,
his eye misses nothing,
and his grip on the paint brush,
never falters or slips out of place,
gives birth to a beautiful scene,
and a beautiful dream.
He's an ancient mentor,
who's learned many things,
he sits slumped in his corner,
tired and worn,
but when he tells his story,
the magic is reborn.
