Violin

I can play the piano.

I can play the guitar.

I can play the violin.

Tucked away in a storage garage somewhere is a man's workshop.  He spends the day with small saws, clamps, and very brittle wood.  The wood needs to be cut, shaped, formed, and polished.  The man works for a businessman who scolds him if he comes in late.  The businessman takes the violin to his store front where practicing musicians come.  Some tunes are very famous, classics.  Others just scale major and minor appeggios.  I wish I could play better.  I do play.  When I play I struggle sometimes with a warbly voice, cold fingers, off tempo.  I just give up sometimes.  Really, I would like to just play pretty.  But I play for someone who loves to listen to the soul of the song.  That keeps me smiling when I play.  I don't know who made my instrument, I don't know where it was bought.  I know who hears me when I play it.

I've tried, but can't play the violin.