As if paint unto the canvas, their music splayed out among the winds.
Scarred hands danced along tarnished instruments,
creating a sound to stir all that hear.

A motley colection of heart heavy men,
Crafting songs about living and meeting the end,
Could be heard from the mountains, and be felt in the sea.
Could be seen by the angels, and wisped through your dreams.

As the rain beat down, upon the palm woven roof.
And the moon called the waves, back home to their roost.
Their music would comfort the hunt weary wolves,
And guide tired children back home.

All threw the night, the young men will play.
In hopes that young ladies might soon look their way.
But when morning draws near, their music will end.
They'll go back to work untill night falls again.