Here comes Dan the mandolin picker,
kicking up dust into town.
He ran so fast he was just a blur.
Must be some picking going down.
I ran to grab my boots on.
I ran to grab my sound.
But by the time I ran he was long gone.
Didn’t see Dan anywhere around.
But music don’t do fences.
It finds you like a friend.
I’ll just have to use my senses.
Have to rely on the wind.
From the vine I plucked a moondrop.
To the sky I tossed a star.
And as I crossed the hilltop
I heard fiddling from afar.