The Muse's Riddle

His arm it breaks,
The fingers they mourn,
The bending it aches,
The anger it fades,
The muse does sing a melody,
E'en though his fingers can play no more,
His soul he soothes,
The child he giggles,

And yet the arm be broke from not too many a fiddle,
But from the cost of a simple stool,
When the bartend could not solve the Muse's riddle,
His arm be broken,
And his fingers unable to fiddle on his little 'iddle,
His voice still sings so that he may play for a day, if not a little.