When I was about sixteen years old,
I walked to a friend’s house nearby.
(This is a story I have never told,
although there is no reason why…)
As I drew nearer the hang-out,
a garage on a gravel alleyway,
I suddenly felt like I had some clout,
for my own song on a guitar did play!
I was amazed, and honored, too.
So I hurried to the door,
to meet the player, and the crew,
and maybe take the floor.
The player was, I do proclaim,
a person like no other.
Dustin was this fellow’s name;
he was my older brother.
I didn’t expect to see him there,
and was doubtfully expected by him,
And as your story teller, I swear,
his guitar skills were rather grim.
A guitarist, he was not meant to be.
(At least that’s what he believed.)
But he did learn that song from me;
a gift that was not then perceived.
He died when I was thirty-one, Man;
he was only thirty-five.
And he always was my greatest fan,
back when he was alive.
