Ink Stained

Even as his strings danced, Danced evenly to his placid fingers, His tune didn't come out right. The thick buzzing of the last string, The one like the humming of the crankiest bee, The one like the murmur of a confused crowd, Was just one of his troubles. He tried fixing the one with the shiny bolt, He tried tightening it with all his might, But that was just one trouble. The bolt slipped off his sweaty fingers, Slipped even before the tightness was achieved. With great difficulty even though, That shiny bolt was tightened. But that was just one trouble less. Just when the thick humming seized, Another unwanted, unpleasant sound arose. This one was an irritating shriek of the first string, The one like the cry of a distressed infant, The one like the scream of a terrorized teenager. This time too the bolt was to be blamed, But this time the crime was very different. The adjustment to this was even more difficult, more complex. He tried loosening it, He tri