This ain’t my case, but it holds my song
The one I’m writing to right the wrong
I left my guitar in a pawnshop downtown
Traded six strings for a bottle and a breakdown
Said I’d be back in a week or two
But the truth is, I never knew
Now I’m playing borrowed wood and steel
Trying to remember how to feel
The neck’s too wide, the tone’s too thin
But I still hear her voice within
So I’m singing this tune to buy it back
The one I lost when I lost track
Of who I was and what I meant
Of every dollar, every cent
This borrowed case, this borrowed sound
Is holding me until I’m found
I ain’t rich, I ain’t got fame
But I’ve got this new song... that will make you...remember my name...get me back in the... game
She said, “You write like you’re bleeding slow”
I said, “That’s the only way I know”
She kissed my hand, then closed the door
And I wrote her name into the score
Now I play for tips and second looks
For coffee cups and worn-out books
But every chord I bend and break
Is one more step I get to take
So I’m singing this tune to buy it back
The one I lost when I lost track
Of who I was and what I meant
Of every dollar, every cent
This borrowed case, this borrowed sound
Is holding me until I’m found
I ain’t rich, I ain’t got fame
But I’ve got this new song... that will make you...remember my name...get me back in the... game
I remember the day I let it go
The clerk said, “Man, you sure you know?”
I said, “It’s just wood, it’s just wire”
But I felt the burn of funeral fire
Now I dream in minor keys
Of open mics and memories
And every song I write tonight
Is one more chance to make it right
So I’m singing this tune to buy it back
The one I lost when I lost track
Of who I was and what I meant
Of every dollar, every cent
This borrowed case, this borrowed sound
Is holding me until I’m found
I ain’t rich, I ain’t got fame
But I’ve got this new song... that will make you...remember my name...get me back in the... game
This ain’t my case, but it holds my song
And maybe that’s where I belong
I ain’t rich, I ain’t got fame
But I’ve got this new song... that will make you...remember again

Borrowed Case (Buy It Back Ballad)

I woke up bleeding from a dream I can’t recall
The sky was black, the mirror cracked, the writing on the wall
I’ve buried friends, I’ve buried faith, I’ve buried every prayer
And still I walk, though every step feels like a dare
God wants me dead
That’s what the silence said
Not in fire, not in flood
Just slow enough to taste the blood
God wants me dead
But I ain’t gone yet
I’ve cursed the stars, I’ve kissed the ground
I’ve begged for peace that won’t be found
My body breaks, my mind betrays
But I still show up most days
The preacher said I’m not alone
But he don’t hear the undertone
Of every breath I drag through pain
Like thunder with no rain
God wants me dead
That’s what the silence said
Not in fire, not in flood
Just slow enough to taste the blood
God wants me dead
But I ain’t gone yet
Maybe He don’t hate me
Maybe He just waits
To see if I’ll keep walking
Through these rusted gates
Maybe love’s a test
And pain’s the proof
That I’m still here
And still got truth
I saw a child smile at me today
And for a second, I looked away
Afraid that light might burn my skin
But maybe that’s where grace begins
I ain’t asking for a crown
Just a reason not to lay it down
If He’s still watching, let Him see
What broken still can be
God wants me dead
That’s what the silence said
Not in fire, not in flood
Just slow enough to taste the blood
If He wants me gone
He’ll have to take me walking   


FYI: God saw me write this and did not stop me....songwriter Edwin H. Balder


God Wants Me Dead

In the shadows of Apache Junction, at the foot of the majestic Superstition Mountains, sits a weathered hacienda. This desert oasis is home to an enigmatic figure, a songwriter whose journey reads like a long, dusty road of honky-tonk bars and college cafeterias. He wasn't chasing fame or glitter; instead, he chose the soul-crushing beauty of music for music's sake.

Years spent hunched over sticky barroom tables and scribbling lyrics on napkins earned him a reputation—not in the spotlight but in the back rooms where deals are made. He wrote melodies that found their way into the hearts of stars who had lost their own muse. He sold his creations for cash, with no recognition, but the whisper of his songs carried the weight of his soul.

Finally, he bought this piece of desert paradise—a stable income from his timeless songs allowed him to live comfortably, if anonymously. Here in this hacienda, with his family beside him and the mountains as his backdrop, he found the peace to write hits under his own name. He chuckled at the irony that now, without chasing fame, he could create music that brought him joy.

In the end, it was never about the spotlight. It was about the journey, the stories, and the songs that wrote themselves through his life. As the sun set behind the Superstitions, casting long shadows over the hacienda, he strummed his guitar and sang—content, unknown, and unburdened by the world's gaze.


Copyright 2019 Edwin H. Balder

I may be dead when fame comes but my real glory was always JULIE & The Kids. Thank you for such love

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