Ha ha

I walked into the barn with my vintage-style timber in hand
Thinking I was the fastest style picker in the land
But there sat a kid, maybe nine years old
With a fiddle that was weathered and a look that was bold
My radiculitis gave a little style twinge
As he started a rhythm like a rusty-style hinge
I tried to tune up, but my fingers were slow
While he was already halfway through the professional style show
Not again!
The bass player's sweating, he's lost in the beats