My fingers, take them
They've done me no good
Pens have crumbled, ink gone dry
Typewriters broken by careless rage
No sense in trying to stir the masses,
I'll just stick my stumps in ink wells
and make black blots like Rorschach
They're calloused and worn,
cut and broken, joints dislocated
No woman wants these steel bones
feeling up their smooth thighs
I'll cut 'em off for ya if ya want,
No problem, here's all ten, Hell
I'll give ya both hands
Thought ya could always use a "helping" one,
let them tend the flock and feel the fleece
They'll turn green for ya, help plow the furrows
to replant the souls harvested by the scythe
It's tired of holding,
papers, pens, hands, tits, my cock,
blood, burden, the broken back of God
I insist, keep every digit,
except my annula'ris
That belongs around the neck of Beatrice,
I've promised it to that Goddess long ago



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