Crossed Fingers

When Lewen counted one hands’ fingers
She got as high as eight.
Now they were crooked, bitten, broken,
And not a one was straight.
This made them good for many things,
For thumb wars they were great.
But counting proved to be a weakness,
A much less handy trait.
She counted up that hand again
And found herself at four.
Another count went roaring out
Returning with two more.
A count from eight to four to six
Seemed like evens messing with the score,
But then the count was three, next five,
To really make the counter sore.
While fingers are some wild beasts
They don’t always make sense.
They’re bucking broncos of their own,
The kingly body’s prince,
And are depended on for counting
When they might better serve us hints.
Lewen released her hands from servitude
And has counted her toes since.