It is made of wood,
It is four-stringed,
It can be bowed,
Plucked, or pinged.
Wooden, shiny,
Beautiful,
The grace is
Irrefutable.
Plucking lightly,
Bowing long,
A cello is
Itself a song.
With strings of silver
And bow of white,
The beauty shines
Throughout the night.
The spotlight’s on me
As I adjust,
Playing the cello
Is a must.
My palms are all sweaty,
There’s a ringing in my ears,
But as I strike the first note,
I let go of my fears.
The music swells
Inside my heart,
All eyes watching
My solo part.
I press the strings
Beneath my fingers,
The song’s almost done,
But the beauty still lingers.