Old Guitar

I need to wipe some dust,

Off from this old guitar.

The one that seen it all.

The one that watched us grow.

My finger tips now hard.

I've sung a so many songs,

I learned to write a few,

In search for something new.

My carrier of dreams,

My lonesome company.

Destroys all agony,

Whenever I'm in need.

My calendar grows thing,

It doesn't skip a page,

Keeping the same slow pace,

And I begin to think.

Oh we travelled a long way,

The road is still the same, the road is still the same.

Oh we travelled a long way,

The road is still the same, the road is still the same.

My hair will soon turn gray,

My stance will slowly bend,

My mind will soon decay,

I hope I still can play.

And when the time will come,

To rest into the dirt,

It'll be my children's turn,

To wipe that dust away.

Everyday's an inch closer to the end, closer to the end.

Oh everyday's and inch closer to the end closer to the end.