Never once was my hands hateful,
In fact, they’re quite swell,
Whether to carry a duck or frog,
My hands are a work of art.
Veins and bones pop up suddenly,
Glistening in the sunlight,
Sizzling, marvelous in every great way.
I roam the beach of my imagination,
Stripping myself of my clothes,
into Pajamas or appropriate attire,
Gyrating my hands,
rowdy to Begin my ritual in writing.
There I sit, fingers unmoving,
Ready to strike; My brain forms the first sentence,
They attack the keyboard with vigor.