Four strings that don’t pluk themselves. A memory of the beaches in my childhood. How I would love to be a surfer but a second hand Ukelele was all I could affoard and no beaches were within a thousand miles from my song.
Strum strum strum
The sound is warm, like campfires, and reminds me of something I can’t quite remember….
It feels like a whisper in my ear, a memory, the smile of a long lost friend.
Ukulele.
High pitched strings won over my teenage heart. Everyone wanted to be a musician, don’t forget the quirk, and would play at the lunch tables. Seems the fad didn’t stick.
She wanted something small to make music and when she saw the ukulele in the market, it’s body scared by a fire, and with stickers from bars holding it together, she bought it for 5 dollars. It still had a good tone, so she joined a local group and played beautifully as the instrument was good luck, having survived so much.
Four strings that don’t pluk themselves. A memory of the beaches in my childhood. How I would love to be a surfer but a second hand Ukelele was all I could affoard and no beaches were within a thousand miles from my song.
Strum strum strum
The sound is warm, like campfires, and reminds me of something I can’t quite remember….
It feels like a whisper in my ear, a memory, the smile of a long lost friend.
Ukulele.
High pitched strings won over my teenage heart. Everyone wanted to be a musician, don’t forget the quirk, and would play at the lunch tables. Seems the fad didn’t stick.
She wanted something small to make music and when she saw the ukulele in the market, it’s body scared by a fire, and with stickers from bars holding it together, she bought it for 5 dollars. It still had a good tone, so she joined a local group and played beautifully as the instrument was good luck, having survived so much.