With these hands so soft and clean, On which I stroke the Vaseline,
I soothe the fever, cool the heat, Lift verrucas out of feet,
Slap the plasters on the knees, Dig the garden, prune the trees,
And if it doesn’t work at all, I throw the mower at the wall.
With these hands I crack the eggs, Floss my teeth, shave my legs,
Write the cheques, count the fivers, Make rude signs at piggish drivers,
Clean the goldfish, light the fires, Pump up half a dozen tyres,
Feed the hamster, worm the dog And decorate the Yuletide log.
With these hands I block the lens, When taking photos of my friends,
This is Mary, this is Fred, See their eyeballs all gone red.
With them I gesticulate, I wag a finger, say, ‘You’re late!’
Throw them up, say, “Don’t ask me!” And, ‘What’s that in your hand? Let’s see!’
With these hands, I fondly make, A brontosaurus birthday cake,
I’m sorry for the shape it’s in, But half of it stuck in the tin.
I pop the corn, I pick the mix, I whack the cricket ball for six,
I organise the party game, And clean up things too vile to name.
No pair of jeans do I refuse, No Levis, Wranglers or FUs,
I wash them fast, I mend them quick, I sew through denim hard and thick,
For no repair job makes me frown, I take them up, I let them down,
I do the fly, I do the rip, I do the knee, I do the zip.
And with these hands I dab the eyes, Officiate at fond goodbyes,
As in the earth we gravely dig, The late lamented guinea pig.
I bow my head, cross my chest, And lay his furry soul to rest,
Reflecting that, on many a day, I could have helped him on his way.
I greet the folks who bang the door, Fill the mouths that shout for more,
Scrape the trainers free of muck, Gut the fish and stuff the duck,
I cart the shopping, heave the coal, Stick the plunger down the bowl,
Take foreign bodies from the eye and with these hands I wave
Goodbye.
I soothe the fever, cool the heat, Lift verrucas out of feet,
Slap the plasters on the knees, Dig the garden, prune the trees,
And if it doesn’t work at all, I throw the mower at the wall.
With these hands I crack the eggs, Floss my teeth, shave my legs,
Write the cheques, count the fivers, Make rude signs at piggish drivers,
Clean the goldfish, light the fires, Pump up half a dozen tyres,
Feed the hamster, worm the dog And decorate the Yuletide log.
With these hands I block the lens, When taking photos of my friends,
This is Mary, this is Fred, See their eyeballs all gone red.
With them I gesticulate, I wag a finger, say, ‘You’re late!’
Throw them up, say, “Don’t ask me!” And, ‘What’s that in your hand? Let’s see!’
With these hands, I fondly make, A brontosaurus birthday cake,
I’m sorry for the shape it’s in, But half of it stuck in the tin.
I pop the corn, I pick the mix, I whack the cricket ball for six,
I organise the party game, And clean up things too vile to name.
No pair of jeans do I refuse, No Levis, Wranglers or FUs,
I wash them fast, I mend them quick, I sew through denim hard and thick,
For no repair job makes me frown, I take them up, I let them down,
I do the fly, I do the rip, I do the knee, I do the zip.
And with these hands I dab the eyes, Officiate at fond goodbyes,
As in the earth we gravely dig, The late lamented guinea pig.
I bow my head, cross my chest, And lay his furry soul to rest,
Reflecting that, on many a day, I could have helped him on his way.
I greet the folks who bang the door, Fill the mouths that shout for more,
Scrape the trainers free of muck, Gut the fish and stuff the duck,
I cart the shopping, heave the coal, Stick the plunger down the bowl,
Take foreign bodies from the eye and with these hands I wave
Goodbye.