There was a girl who sat in the dirt, on her knees,
As she played with the bees,
Who banged on the keys
Of her piano strings.
Her laughter rings.
She even sings.
It stings
When her mother whispers, “Shh!”

There was a girl who crossed her knees
As she watched the bees,
Whose fingers flowed across the keys
Of her piano strings.
Her laughter does not ring
And she sometimes sings.
It still stings
When her mother whispers, “Shh!”

There was a girl who clutched her knees
As she hid from her bees,
Whose fingers ached for the keys
Of her piano strings.
Her laughter is nothing more than a fling.
She does not sing.
She does not feel the sting
When her mother whispers, “Shh!”

There is a woman who sits in the dirt, on her knees,
As she plays with the bees,
Who bangs on the keys
Of her piano strings.
Her laughter is remembering how to ring.
And she is learning how to love to sing.
She does not let it sting
When her mother whispers, “Shh!”