My left hand tells my story

In all its vulgar glory

My smallest finger is crooked

My pointer finger grows the wrong way

There's nothing there to say

My finger tips are smudged with pencil lead

The small scrapes are red

On my wrist I wear a band of green

All of this, can be seen

My watch keeps the time as I run

Under the hot and grueling sun

And faintly, there are two scars

From a time I thought I couldn't go on