Three frolicking fingers serrated
By strings that musically muse;
Resulting in calloused contusion
From hours of six-string abuse.
Well known that the artist must suffer,
Tormented producing his craft;
But the artist’s suspicion would never
Suspect he’d need fingers to graft.
His anguish should stem from the ether,
By a soul and a spirit that ache
Not waylaid by cavernous fingers
Left in the suffering’s wake.