On the sunny summer day
On the cozy wooden throne
He leans back along
Playing a wild, creepy tone

He strikes at the veins
Of the poor held inmate
The sweet nightingale
He tries to imitate

He strikes his first note
Do-re -mi -fa -so
His pals applaud
As he plays a note low

His four delicate octaves
Go on thinning as he strums
Untold about this
Happily he just hums

Hearing peals of laughter
He sees his leaf torn far
All taunting him,
A Guitarist without Guitar