Mandolin Player

Mandolin Player

How could the Mandolin player be so well composed?
How does she climb the scale so well? How can she be exposed

to rough and noisy merriment, while still she plays pell-mell?
Amidst those wise men’s arguments; discordant as a bell

their raucous, rowdy sound, so shrill. It fills St. Patrick's Inn.
She picks a jig and strums the rest. She hears the notes within.

No time her smiling fades; no time the music thins.
She goes full bore, til’ hands are sore with blisters on her skin.

She quits no music here; imbibes the barman’s offered beer;
She strums her husky tune and swills the frothy brew with cheer.

Well-past the midnight hour; past morning’s dawn and dew
she fin’ly lays her Mando’ down, picks up the morning’s brew.

She stands to stretch and find her feet, then smiles a gleeful grin,
hands back the cup the barman gave, takes up her Mandolin.

She nods and strolls right out the door. The night has been sure-slain.
There’ll be no more raucous tunes ‘til evening comes again.


Rhyming Couplets
a ballad