Here’s one from Dudley, whose latest book, by the way, is "She Plumb Ned, She More’n Plumb." I highly recommend it. It’s stories in poems.
THE G FIDDLER
That’s what he did nighttimes, played for them house dances down the peninsula. Tunes like White Cockade, Larry O’Gaff and like that. Folks would walk on broken glass to have a bow arm like his.
Well that’s what he did nights. Had real work daylight hours, what the hippies call a Day Job. Had his own boat and a mate to help him.
So he’s pulling pots one morning, and a rope snagged, pulled his hand right through, cutting off the tip of a finger. He says to his mate “Dere goes B flat.”