for Chet Atkins (June 20, 1924 – June 30, 2001). Rest in peace.

I checked the headlines just the other day.
They told me you had put down your guitar.
They said that you had gone and passed away.
The sun that rose is now a falling star.
And as I sit here strumming my guitar
I realize that pain is now a lay.
The music that once healed now leaves a scar.
I put down my guitar. I can not play.

Like myself you hailed from Tennessee.
Who knew where that glad guitar would lead?
Your laughing lute was clearly filled with glee
when you played "Summertime" with Jerry Reed.
And everyone that knew you just agreed
that your humility would find the way.
Your picking style was all that you would need.
I put down my guitar. I can not play.

Will anybody ever really know
why we were blessed with such a genius?
On every fret where your deft hands would go
you always made it look the easiest.
The music that you made was always blessed,
but now your magic hands have turned to clay.
The music's over. You have gone to rest.
I put down my guitar. I can not play.

I'm just too sad. The music is no comfort.
I wish that yesterday was still today.
The music that I play just makes me hurt.
I put down my guitar. I can not play.