Had all been born but me
With arms and hands in threes,
Oh, how cheated would I seem
With only two?
Would I feel myself deprived
Of the limb I was denied,
When the two of mine combined
Yield nothing new?
Though they will suffice
For what must be done in life,
A sting is always in the bite
Of things undone.
Oh how hard it is to be
The one with two when most have three,
But two can sufficiently
Tend those with one.
.
.
I'd tell them, you know, if they wanted to know. I'd tell them all sorts of things.
