Slowly he strummed his guitar...
This tale is of a time ago,
A tale of seven strings;
He sat alone in dark and gloom
And gave the angels wings.
He strummed them all, then each one slow,
As if he tested glass;
He plucked them lone with rare aplomb
To make sure all would pass.
The first string gave a fearsome tone
That broke the silent night;
He drawled alone in lightened room
"Land's sakes, that was a fright."
The second string was mournful sure
Like waters under earth;
He groaned alone like ancient tomb
"We need a bit more mirth."
The third string you could hear the leaves
A-rustling in the breeze;
He laughed alone in airy home
"Ah, that is sure to please."
The fourth string was the central one
And sounded middle G;
A proud cyclone of piercing tone
The stars came out to see.
The fifth string gave uneven notes
And even fishier thirds;
Within his bones he heard the moans
"Well, this one's for the birds."
The sixth string made his fingers sore,
It really was that thin;
Inside the zone of great unknown
It sounded black as sin.
He strummed them slow and made it grow
But Seven broke in twain;
So he intoned, "Well, that's all gone,
Let's take a break again."
And that is why on seventh day
We humans take a holiday.
