I had money for a guitar but nowhere was open to buy it.

The money in my pocket was beginning to burn,

My fret hand was trembling; I was getting concerned.

My chick was at home, probably schtupping her ex.

My old guitar in pawn, probably playing Tex-Mex.

As I neared an alley and turned round the corner,

Hand on my flask, hoping to get warmer,

When back in the corner, arose such a clatter,

I ducked behind the dumpster to protect my gray matter.

I prayed then and there my faith solidified in a flash,

But then I heard someone playing the Clash.

The moon, sickly greasy from heating unit’s blow

Cast a light upon the guitar player in the corner below

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

A Les Paul sitting beside him and a six-pack of beer.

With little Fender Bullet amp, lively and gritty

We nodded in time and worked up a ditty.

We fell into time as though we’d jammed forever,

My rhythms shattered concrete his leads did sever.

“PT Boat on the way to Havana,

I used to make a living, man picking the banana”

We jammed for hours just feet from the street

Not realizing how soon the cops we would meet.

The cops, it seems, were trying to clear up the hoods

Someone was apparently playing stolen goods.

Now I sit in a holding cell and all I can do is stare.

And some smelly hippy’s trying to braid my hair.

All I wanted was a guitar for Christmas day,

But I’m looking at 5 – 10 for a few hours play.

So I say to all businesses that close Christmas Eve,