My hand just won't stop today, it's making me pay... for every time I've ignored it when it was  begging to play.

Just when I think that it's had enough, that it's tired... Down goes the pen, grab the torch spark the fire.

A small book of poems, a wall full of art all a day's work to my hand when it starts.

I get hungry grow weary my back starts to ache....no sir not done yet... you're staying up late.

I let my hand be the master, me it's slave for the day, at least once a week, so it's happy and I'm sane.