Scott Whitby, 2021
My hands
Fat and little
Always busy
Always piddled
Sharp fingernails
A handful of hair
The only way
They could fight fair
A little later
Fingers longer
Muscles bigger
Getting stronger
Soon they would
Touch a girl
All so new
Smooth as pearl
Played ballgames
And dug the dirt
Built fences
Until they hurt
They worked hard
Cut and torn
Hands of a man
Calluses formed
Later years
Many words they wrote
And babies I wish
They still could tote
I still have my hands
But now they're old
Knuckles won't bend
Whether or not they're cold
I use them the same
They hurt but I try
They don't work as good
But still get by
I wouldn't trade these hands
It's ok they swell
Been with me forever
And served me so well
They are lessor than others
Weaker than some
But what would I be
What could I become
What would I do
Without these old hands
I'd still be me
But less of a man
If I could start again
And begin all anew
With a brand new body
What would I do?
If I could do over
And pick all my parts
My hands I would pick
As much as my heart
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