Only with a few more dimes.
The fingers are the same,
Scratching through magazines and traveling books in search of ideas for fame.
Your hands are mine,
Just with a little more life,
Looking at them I see you become a wife and a strong pillar,
My beautiful self, made from the best cellar.
Your hands are my hands
Every fiber, nail, print, right down to their very glands,
Only I clothe yours in gloves of the best cotton and brands.
Yours have not seen struggle, yours have not wiped away pain,
Yours aren’t as crooked and have never hidden a blood stain,
But those are my hands
And to make them better than mine is exactly what God plans.