tinkling on the much-used keys, just borrowed for the day,

hunting for some old fool's gold, as her Papa used to say,

for a music soul brought nothing, but heartache and cold tears,

before too long, it leaves you broke, then up and disappears

but her thin brown hands knew the way, to keep a perfect time,

and her Mama always told her, that she had a way with rhyme,

so she traipsed along the lonely trail, of gold dust and life's song,

for the good Lord would never guide, her living steps much wrong

"hers are some piano fingers," they said, as she raced to catch a tune,

something about quiet ghosts, and the dark sways of the moon,

and all that fuss and twirling done, there to the left of stars,

but she wondered how she'd do it, as she hummed a few more bars

sweet chariots swung low, but young Sally took to riding trains,

past cotton fields, gardens green, and a man in a gang and chains,

lost in the wild hum of bees, and the sun that squinted her eye,

carrying particles of old songbooks, to scatter across the sky

she sprinkled some on her Papa's porch, but only the finest gold,

and for many long countless years, her life story was retold,

how she spun songs, her Papa was wrong, as he had been so cruel,

denying the gold that was his daughter, and thus became the fool