(Cover) The Bard Who Strummed Too Hard

In the corner by the fire, he sat all alone, with a lute in his hands,

making sins of his own. He plucked and he pulled, till the strings

nearly cried. Oh, the bard who strummed too hard, till his dignity

died. He strummed too hard, he played too fast, the notes came quick

they could never... Last though the strings gave out, left him Barred tail of the bard

who strummed too hard. His fingers danced wild, a feverish spree.

Sweat on his brow like a storm on the sea. He claimed it was art,

a gift from above, but the crowd only laughed, said that's not love.