Some will play those bleeding heartstrings
until their fingers bleed just the same
and no-one has a place to stand because
all the cobbled streets are awash with it

I played another set of strings, though,
down on the back of a hot small-block
and though they did not bleed,
they certainly had heart,
and all the burn was more than enough
compensation.

And when you tossed me those rags
to clean the bleed from my fingers,
Friend, I can tell you, Certainly
was the only way I thought
that all was right with the world.