I have a new guitar.
It’s shiny, red, and it came with a black box amplifier.
I feel cool when I strap it on.
I strum the strings, expecting beautiful music, but all I hear is noise.
I don’t know how to play my pretty new guitar.
I practice and practice, a, e, g, but it only makes my fingers hurt.
The tips of my fingers are numb and sore,
like the feeling I get when you whisper my name.

I love it when you whisper in my ear, but I hate my name.
Dee Cox doesn’t suit me, I think it’s lame.
It must have been meant for another,
I’ve always been pissed at my mother.
A name like mine is loaded for jokes,
never a source for positive strokes.

There was the time, in eighth grade, some cruel clowns rumored my middle name to be “sucks.” Dee Sucks Cox, what a misnomer. They would never find out how wrong they were.

I should change my name,
but I’ll wait until Gramma is out of the game.
Some people call me Miss Dee.
Misty really doesn’t befit me,
but it’s better than just Dee.
Cox surely doesn’t benefit a girl like me.
Vaginas would be more appropriate than Cox,
because I live outside the box.

Misty Vaginas, now there is a name for the witness protection program,
but maybe it’s not really for me.
When the earned calluses allow,
and I can finally play my shiny new guitar,
I’ll write a song,
perhaps with a country twang,
about Misty Vaginas on the run.