Yardsale

I wonder if this blade ran through someone's side

The blood wiped away to hide

How evil you grandfather was 'fore he died

But war can make monsters out of us all

I'm sure I'd become one if I was called

And then it would be my blade

Here at this yardsale

The guitar I am holding is way out of tune

The neck it is warped and the saddle is through

I wonder if sweet music ever was played

From the hands of a boy to a girl in the shade

From this rickety ghost of a song

Here at this yardsale

A dollar for anything here on this quilt

A price tag for hands from which all things are built

A blanket of voices speak pleasure in shame

Flowers of plastic and fruit of the same

A basket of nothing at all

Here at this yardsale

So if I had the money I'd buy everything

And cover the whole lot with good gasoline

And burn it for all that I care for the past

And rid mother earth of what never should last

And give her the present of ash

Made of a yardsale