Guest
In a quaint little village, where violins play, There lived a sweaty blacksmith, Geraldo was his name. His arms were like anvils, his face always red, And he hammered away, forging horseshoes and bread. Oh, the Fiddle cast its spell, oh so sly, Playing tunes that made hearts flutter and sigh. But Geraldo, oh poor Geraldo, he knew, He’d be in trouble if he fell for someone in view. The Fiddle started strumming, its strings all aglow, Geraldo wiped his brow, feeling the love flow. The baker’s daughter winked, the milkmaid blushed, Even the mayor’s wife twirled, her cheeks slightly flushed. Oh, the Fiddle cast its spell, oh so sly, Playing tunes that made hearts flutter and sigh. But Geraldo, oh poor Geraldo, he knew, He’d be in trouble if he fell for someone in view. He dodged the old widow’s advances, oh so deft, And danced with the mayor, despite his heft. But when the Fiddle played, oh, it was a curse, For love was i
