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.