When I look at this fiddle The color of your skin As smooth as the desert inside your eyes Round as the world you profess not to be a part of When I deal this card One of many that are capable of playing poker Like the game we play with each other when we are alone As a single mouse muffin on a new high-school diploma So pulling back this lever I start the engine like some diesel belt Which like my love of you shall not perish forever And the best-loved songs of the American people, like the crowd That dances in ever-widening circles Around these fiddlers here who practice their sawmill movements Changing only when the dinner bell rings