I once played upn my ukulele
but now have stopped, having given it to a bum
Tangerines have struck him down
and in the striking played a sound
upon the ukulele of mine,
and in the sound the strings did break
and after them a sound was made
of cracking wood and squashing fruit,
and after that the rain it came
and washed away the stench of rot and cleared away the body of
the unfortunate, disheveled bum,
whose small and total sum
of all his earthly things did lie
within the weathered pieces of
my weathered ukulele