Mustachioed fiddlerYour rackish hair beliesThe solemn music youPull from your fiddle's hollow;Are you playing Bach, Braum, Beethoven?But, I spy your wisp of grinCut loose, now!Give us a toe-tappin' mountain Music memory!

Laughing bird,You need your feathers Washed and combedDo you care? No, you laugh at the wide sky At the lesser birds—The measly cardinal, The lowly Scrub Jay,You laugh.

Spiders are in king's palacesSays the Bible. Who are we?We build fancy houses;We think we are great.We are so grand!Yet who has such fine Housing as these creatures?They lounge on ivory pillowed bedsAll day as clean mountain airSweeps through art deco wallsAt night the moon beams through Gossamer ceilingsThe whole perfumed withScent designed by God.