Maybe the strings are growing old now
Maybe the guitar's lost its ring?
Maybe the wood is growing dry now
Poor old thing, poor old thing
Maybe the fingers are growing old now
Maybe the voice has lost its ring?
Maybe the throat is growing dry now
Poor old thing, poor old thing
Sometimes the sound will die of sadness
Sometimes the strings will ring
And I will sing with them
I will sing with them
Maybe the shadows are growing long now
Maybe the seasons dulled the string
Maybe the harmony lies broken
Poor old thing, poor old thing
Maybe a song is never-ending
Even the last elusive ring
Seeming to wend away for ever
Poor old thing, poor old thing
Poor old thing
