Her name is Cherry.
We've just met,
but already she knows me better than you.
She understands me, after 18 years,
but you still don't see me like you ought to do.
Maybe we could talk bout things if
you was made of wood and strings.
While I love her every sound,
I don't know how to turn you down,
and you're so thick and my pages are thin,
So I got me a new best friend
With a pick-up that puts you to shame,
and Cherry is her name.
And when I'm lone-ly
Cherry's there
and she plays along while I sing out my blues
I could be crying,
and you don't care
You won't call me back, you're stubborn as a mule.
May-be we could talk bout things if
you was made of wood and strings.
You might think I've
gone too far
I'm talking bout
my new guitar.