My fingers may never be traceable,
Their sudden curve at top joint elicit stares.
Perhaps, those bumps could be removable,
Must I rid myself from these snares and snares?

My pinky curves like a right angle, but
The cast hurt much more than the affliction.
The other dactyl stay in their rut,
They are bound to their quaint predilection.

Those same fingers tap such heavenly notes,
Transitioning across each silver string,
The "right angle" is what the bow stick totes,
Oh, the joys my curves in music shall bring!

The public may guffaw at these beauties,
But their envy is making them snooty.