I remember an elderly man, back some years ago who played the fiddle. His name was Acie Neal. To him I dedicate this poem. Although I knew nothing about his finances, most of this is fact.
I know he is playing his fiddle in Heaven today.
His Old Fiddle
Music flowing from his fiddle was amazing
His shaggy hair was so crumpled and gray
He played with the touch of younger man
His playing was the best, many would say
In younger days he played at the dances
So smooth as they danced across the floor
He was full of energy at that time of his life
At four in the morning he would play more
Today he plays at the church he attends
You might say he is playing for the Lord
Living out life on a Social Security check
His fiddle is the only thing he can afford
He knows that his life soon will be over
Ever in his mind he has this one riddle
When the angels sing up there in Heaven
Will God allow him to play his old fiddle
copyright © 2009 By Acie
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