Harry had an ache in his hands
Where it had come from . . .
He was not aware, it was just there
Right now, holy cow, right now and how!
The ache was in Harry’s hands
A fiddler fiddles, a whittler whittles,
A scribbler scribbles according to Muir
Pure expression can pour out in passion
Once all the practicing study is done
One note follows another as . . .
The knife to the wood makes the image appear
Clear and concise inking a letter, better remember
‘I’ve used glorious twice - Ahh, but . . . ‘tis such a nice word!’
Fiddlesticks, whittle chips and wadded-up paper
Broken strings, dullish things and wordslinger flings
Lead to the place we all try once again
Until it becomes a gift for a friend
Harry had an ache in his hands
Where it had come from . . .
He was not aware, it was just there
Right now, holy cow, right now and how!
The ache was in Harry’s hands