The Gibson Weeps In memory of my Father-in-law, Bob Blake... In gentle tones you sang the blues... with working hands caressed a chord... and no request would you refuse for nothing more could you afford. You lived within a country song with words and rhythms ill defined. The only tune that wasn't wrong was playing softly in your mind. But near the end, in sweetest voice, the music filled your soul it seems.. and in the end, as if by choice, you left the music to our dreams. And now the mournful music sleeps. In other hands... the Gibson weeps. © Copyright 2002 Wayne Neighbors