Visitors of mine see you on my trophy shelf
Made out of pure gold, looks good on show
But I can't tell the story though I do it well
Because I know I'll end up in a padded cell
Or all my neighbours will just simply bring me hell
Though that will at least be somewhat ironic (-ronic)

Some people try to press me on why
I keep my lips shut tight, lips shut tight, all hushed
But no-one can know what it's worth
Or the truth 'bout you, golden fiddle

Pure golden fiddle
Pure golden fiddle

Qui-qui-qui-qui-quite a tale behind you but who'd say it's legit?
A devil that plays fair in games for one's soul?
That doesn't match up with the stories folks know well
The devil's more the type to trade for souls to sell
And when he loses, why not still send me to hell?
He's not the sort to hold up a bargain (bargain)

So all that I can do is faux-lie
And say it was a prize, though a prize for what
Is not gonna be in my words
Hide the truth 'bout you, golden fiddle

Pure golden fiddle
Pure golden fiddle

Truth
Should be spoken but this is hopeless
Truth
Can't be spoken, it sounds too bogus