Airbaja's Time Machine- 'The Yardbirds'

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The Yardbirds: Echoes in Psychedelic Time

In the haze of the Sixties, a spark was struck,
Where blues met fire and lightning ran amok.
Guitars howled like wolves at the rising moon,
Birthed in a whirlwind, gone too soon.

Clapton’s strings wept, pure and true,
A pilgrim of tone, the blues his muse.
Yet ego whispered, the call was strong,
To leave the Yardbirds, to right his wrong.

Beck arrived with his wild-eyed flair,
Bending notes like smoke in the air.
Fuzzy riffs and feedback roared,
He opened doors to the unexplored.

Then came Page, the alchemist king,
Crafting storms from a six-string.
The seeds of Zeppelin in shadows grew,
A phoenix rising from the Yardbirds’ view.

Egos clashed, as genius will,
Fame and friction fought to thrill.
Glory gained, yet splinters remain,
What could have been still haunts the refrain.

But listen close, the echoes still hum,
From "Shapes of Things" to dreams undone.
The Yardbirds soared where few could fly,
Pioneers beneath a psychedelic sky.

In the heart of music, their legacy glows,
A tapestry woven with highs and lows.
Three guitar gods, paths intertwined,
A flash of brilliance for all time.