Wasted Youth

I remember everything!  I remember every little thing as if it happened only yesterday.  I was barely seventeen and I once killed a boy with a Fender guitar.  I don't remember if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster but I do remember that it had a heart of chrome and a voice like a horny angel.  I don't remember if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster but I do remember that it wasn't at all easy.  It required the perfect combination of the right power chords and the precise angle from which to strike.  
  The guitar bled for about a week afterward and the blood was, ohhh, dark and rich, like wild berries.  The blood of the guitar was chuck berry red.  The guitar bled for about a week afterward but it rung.  Out.  Beautifully.  And I was able to play notes that I had never even heard before. 
  So I took my guitar, and I smashed it against the wall!  I smashed it against the floor!  I smashed it against the body of a varsity cheerleader!  I smashed it against the hood of a car!  Smashed it against a 1981 Harley Davidson!  The Harley howled in pain!  The guitar howled in heat....and I ran up the stairs to my parents' bedroom - Mommy and Daddy were sleeping in the moonlight.  
  Slowly I opened the door, creeping through the shadows right up to the foot of their bed.  I raised the guitar high above my head, and just as I was about to bring the guitar crashing down upon the center of the bed, my father woke up screaming, "Stop!  Wait a minute!  Stop it boy!  What do you think you're doing?!  That's no way to treat an expensive musical instrument!"  
And I said "God dammit Daddy!  You know I love you.  BUT YOU'VE GOT A HELL OF A LOT TO LEARN ABOUT ROCK AND ROLL!"

Jim Steinman