Yardsale

I wonder if this blade ran through someone's side,
The blood wiped away to hide,
How evil you grandfather was 'fore he died,
But war can make monsters out of us all,
I'm sure I'd become one if I was called,
And then it would be my blade,
Here at this yardsale,
The guitar I am holding is way out of tune,
The neck it is warped and the saddle is through,
I wonder if sweet music ever was played,
From the hands of a boy to a girl in the shade,
From this rickety ghost of a song,
Here at this yardsale,

A dollar for anything here on this quilt,
A price tag for hands from which all things are built,
A blanket of voices speak pleasure in shame,
Flowers of plastic and fruit of the same,
A basket of nothing at all,
Here at this yardsale,
So if I had the money I'd buy everything,
And cover the whole lot with good gasoline,
And burn it for all that I care for the past,
And rid mother earth of what never should last,
And give her the present of ash,
Made of a yardsale.