Friday, September 3, 2010

a Fiddler

Let me tickle the finest of horse hair
with my sweeping majestic bow,
as you lose yourself in grandiose beat
my foot taps me in to flow.

I am bound up with all conventions
Sweet malts slake your thirst,
Test to the full the supportive rigging
As your energy is fit to burst.

And as with all the best small things
You wake next morn’, sounds still running your head.
A jig, a drop and a smile,
“Sure, tis better than being dead.”

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