Here's To You Poem by John Yaws

My first taste of country music-
Was a battered old guitar,
And a half stoned country picker,
On the fender of his car.
His voice was deep and mellow-
As he sang "I saw the Light'-
With that Texas moon above him-
It seemed everything was right.
My friend and his old guitar-
Never rose to fame-
And except in our hometown
It seems nobody knows his name.
He drifted down to Houston-
Making music in the bars.
He who'd longed to make the Opry-
Knew he'd never make a star.
He was late for work one Friday-
They went to check his room.
He lay in bed, grave-yard dead
With a needle and a spoon.
I'd like to think that somewhere
His old guitar still rings,
And old friends listen, smiling-
As the country picker sings,
That may be wishful thinking-
But I surely hope it's true-
Wherever you wound up, friend,
Old buddy, here's to you,