Yardsale

I wonder if this blade ran through someone's side
 The blood wiped away to hide
 How evil you grandfather was 'fore he died
 But war can make monsters out of us all
 I'm sure I'd become one if I was called
 And then it would be my blade
 Here at this yardsale
 The guitar I am holding is way out of tune
 The neck it is warped and the saddle is through
 I wonder if sweet music ever was played
 From the hands of a boy to a girl in the shade
 From this rickety ghost of a song
 Here at this yardsale
 A dollar for anything here on this quilt
 A price tag for hands from which all things are built
 A blanket of voices speak pleasure in shame
 Flowers of plastic and fruit of the same
 A basket of nothing at all
 Here at this yardsale
 So if I had the money I'd buy everything
 And cover the whole lot with good gasoline
 And burn it for all that I care for the past
 And rid mother earth of what never should last
 And give her the present of ash
 Made of a yardsale