Goodbye and getting rid are not the same.
I lift you up and lay you in your case;
you echo as though hollowed of my claim.
 

I played you rarely and I played you tame,
but still you rumbled forth your chordal lace.
Goodbye and getting rid are not the same.
 

I strum amiss and try to slap the blame
by rapping on the crack that splits your face.
You echo as though hollowed of my claim.
 

One day, in chords alone, you asked my name,
which might have spelled an end to this embrace.
Goodbye and getting rid are not the same.
 

"I could have dropped you in a dump of shame,
brushed off my pants, and shrugged at your disgrace,"
you echo, as though hollowed of my claim.
 

O may you play in sweet strong hands, in fame
or home, and may my ear pick up a trace—
goodbye and getting rid are not the same—
....
You echo, as though hollowed of, my claim.