For my nimble fingers sting,
Yet it is not written in the music.
I must play as if I were Mozart!
I wish to play as Morgan.
A forever battle of who to be.
A blend I suppose.
They use words like double bar and chord,
For I have not the faintest idea what they mean.
As tears well in the corners of the eye,
They do not flow.
Because the only flow,
Is the rhythm of my bow.