The Fiddler

There was a man named Mr. Liddle,
Who loved to sit and play his fiddle,
As the many hours of the day became the night.

He loved to watch the notes conforming,
As the stars slipped into mourning,
Mourning for the darkness as it faded into light.

Night and day, that was his story,
Though never fame, nor wealth, nor glory,
Ever had a chance to flicker cross his mind.

He played of joy he played of sorrow,
A song for every lost tomorrow,
And each regret within his life that he had left behind.

Though it had never been his plan,
The world had come to know the man,
Who sat inside his house and played the fiddle with amazing skill.

Though recognition he did abhor,
The world was desperate to hear more,
And forced him into playing songs against his will.

So he became what he despised,
And tears were often in his eyes,
But blinded by the music, no one ever knew.

They never heard the silent fight,
That raged within his heart at night,
And they could never have predicted what he planned to do.

And so the man named Mr. Liddle,
Who used to love to play the fiddle,
Closed his case and hung his head as he decided he was done.

Since everything he loved was gone.
He saw no reason to go on,
And Mr. Liddle left the world with but a note that said, "You Won."