Hey diddle diddle, Ken bought a fiddle,
And no-one was over the moon,
Everyone was in tears, they covered their ears,
The fiddle was so out of tune.

In the garden one day, Ken did play,
Neighbours were there to endure.
From the house set free, “I know,” said he,
I will act as connoisseur.

He found the throbbin', of the little Robin,
Was deficient of fine skill,
The plain old song, drawn out too long,
Too high pitched the trill.
 
The Linnet's throat, had barely a note,
Worth listening to; although,
If she'd been taught, by him, he thought,
She might have sung so-so.

No bird's song, in the garden among
The fiddler, Ken Beecher,
Something was wrong, in every song,
So he silenced them with a screecher.

He stroked his bow, to let them know,
He was the one with poise,
But when hair met string, all it did bring,
Was an awful horrible noise.

So the neighbours came, to lay the blame,
Provoked to such excess;
“Good sir,” they say, “Will you display
The talent which you possess.”

“Your taste so fine, no doubt, divine,
Your voice, we ask, to clear it;
For doubtless we, much melody,
Might learn if we could hear it.”

Embarrassed, his head, Ken scratched and said,
“My fiddling, you find averse,
You judges deem, my fiddle screams,
But my singing is terribly worse!