That I cannot play the guitar any better than I do
after fifty years of trying’s disappointing.
Bad hand neurons.
Brain lanes blocked by Mighty Mouse and Whitey Ford.
My only little league hit was a bunt. Live pitching
was very different from pinkball off the garage door.
Hand-eye coordination disturbed by strange vibration.
Probably "Sweet Little Sixteen." Chuck often took the blame.
And bad sneakers was always a good excuse.