Hands

For years they have copped abuse,
From all throughout the lands,
People have taken them for granted,
I'm talking about your hands.
We talk about getting the point,
Of being under the thumb,
We plant palms in our garden,
Our familiarity made us numb.
Until the hands went on strike,
The leapt up from our arms,
And skittered to somewhere quiet,
Immune from all our harms.
With stumps we tried to survive,
Cornflakes were no fun,
The door we could not open,
To frolic in the sun.
A visit to the toilet produced,
Frustrated howls of, "F*ck!",
Getting dressed took dexterity,
And more than a little luck.
Computer time was not allowed,
The keyboard proving hard,
Writing was similarly elusive,
And clapping also barred.
Beverages were not accessible,
People just ate sugar lumps,
For wrestling with the hot container,
Merely burnt your stumps.
You're getting the point of the exercise,
On you the image has grown,
So I don't need to describe,
What happened when you were alone ....
The hands saw the trouble caused,
And returned from their retreat,
We clapped our feet in celebration,
For now our hands just can't be beat.