Harold Zingers wasn't normal. Not even a bit.

He had monkey fingers... and stripes that wouldn't quit.

He played the piano with flair, funk, and grace-

But the zebras around him just stared bored into space.

So he packed up his dreams and his old piano case,

Left hoofprints in hay and a tear on his face.

The savannah was boring. The city was loud.

He'd play for the streets, for the weird and the proud.

From old folks to hot dogs, from kids to small clubs,

From awkward missteps to big roaring hubs-

Harold discovered that being unique

Wasn't a curse. It was music. It spoke.