On a cold snowy night,
Guitars, beers and old friends,
Transcend the boredom of a lost city.
Music is played in a basement built for memories.
Chords are swapped and notes collapse into a house of cards.
Once they were teenagers with nothing to do, but protest the man.
Now they come together as adults, who loathe themselves, for becoming the man.
Creativity blossomed but was overturned by responsibility and reason.
The instrument binds them together,
Like the cold cement binds to the floor.
It is the best of two worlds.
First, they rock and scream ecstatically,
Then they get swept into a melody of harmony.
The guitar is honest and faithful.
It knows their beloved tunes,
Like only a best friend would.