Her name is Cherry. We've just met, already she knows me better than you. She understands me, after 18 years, But you still don't see me like ought to do. Maybe we could bout things if You was made of wood and strings. While I love her every sound, I don't know to turn you down, 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 her name. And when I'm lonely Cherry's there she plays along while I sing out my blues I could be crying, you don't care You won't call me back, stubborn as a mule. May-be we could talk bout things if You was made of and strings. You might think I've Gone too far I'm talking bout My new guitar.