The guitar
Is a difficult instrument;
A seasoned guitarist can strum
And pluck
And pick,
Coaxing each nylon organ
Its metallic voice:
Resonant, tinny twang.
Yet,
When they open
Their bristly lips to sing
To moan
To drone,
The rasp that stumbles out
Spoils the diligent work
Of the stringent strings.
It is blasphemous,
Hearing such strained whining
Passed off as expertise
As vocal control
As musicality,
An emotionless, mindless wheeze
Ejaculating empty words of complaint.
The guitar
Is a difficult instrument;
Those who master its hollow frame
Its fretted neck
Its stinging spine,
Will find the throat, tongue, diaphragm
Instruments more difficult to master.
Morning's Early Dark 