Buddy’s fingers were not his.
They had biz
Of their own.
And while he’d grown
Quite at home
Working those fingers
Doubt now lingers
Who runs them.
Sometimes not him.
They’d hurt him for no reason
And there seemed to be a season
When they wouldn’t work at all.
When Buddy sent the call
Pick this up, write that.
Those hands, they hollered back.
Just MAKE US! You fool!
We aren’t somebody’s tool!
You need to learn some manners
And ask real slow.
Cause the fingers are done now
And running the show.
You need to learn some manners
And what do you now know?
Should have made some closer friends
Ten damn fingers ago.
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