My wicked hands are always in the way,
waking days, evening nights even when I pray.
Two microbe planets, Galapagos of men,
a paradise with a rise forever on my hands.
The working word has hand unheard,
utter even one without,
a kiss is nice don’t say it twice or hands will follow suit.
They reach a spot and without prompt take the words away.
So hands and words they get along but Brutus has the knife,
he cuts the tongue and words undone forever in my life.
See the reason behind the treason of what my hands have done?
They slit the courage folks love most and showed it to the sun.
Now all they do is flap around and make my words a thing!
They make and brake and shake and take and even try to sing!