There was a fiddler named Gimble
Whose fingers were nimble
To play all the licks and the trills.
He could play Darling Nelly
Or Stephane Grappelli
Or tunes that were old as the hills.
He played the Orange Blossom
So the people would toss him
Dimes, quarters, and some dollar bills.
He played shows and dances
From Texas to Kansas
With a fiddler by the name of Bob Wills.
And as he got older
The fiddle on his shoulder
Seemed as natural as a flag on a pole.
He smiled as he played
Some old serenade
And the music came up from his soul.
You could hear the stars falling
And the whippoorwill calling
Whenever he picked up his bow.
And the shuffling and sliding
Of ghost dancers gliding
On kitchen floors long, long ago.