Written by The Parkinson’s Poet
Right hand you’ve been a friend of mine: you’ve been
there when I needed strength, or penmanship,
or speed to pluck an egg from ‘neath a hen,
or subtle touch to lift a maiden’s slip.
That hand could lift me up a mountain crag
or type a dissertation oh so grand;
those fingers often reached to make a tag
or drew artistic figures in the sand.
Right hand you’ve been a stalwart body part—
you’ve always been the one to point the way
or soothe a fevered brow, or push the cart,
or grab the bill when it was time to pay.
Now with my left I wipe a private tear
To mourn the fading light of one so dear.
