Hands
There are hands that rock the cradleAnd hands that shuck the peas.
There are hands that hold a steady course
Across the angry seas.
There are hands that pull the triggers,
Yet hands that bind the wounds,
And hands that dance the ivory keys
To play those ragtime tunes.
Some hands must labor baking bread.
Some hands must prune the rose.
Some hands must pull the lever on
The gallows, I suppose.
But when our numbered days are done,
And we are laid to rest,
Our pallid hands will lie at last
Across our silent breast.
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