© Lyle Petersen
published in ANVIL Magazine, August 1997
The scars on my fingers are there to remind me
of nails I was slow to wring off.
A colt with an attitude gave me a kick
in a place that still hurts when I cough
The toenail is missing from off of my big toe
'twas stomped by an Appy named Jack,
A Belgian named Billy, an Arab named Missy
-- it finally gave up growing back.
My thumb has a blood blister big as a nickel
(my hammers don't always fly true).
It isn't a statement of modern punk fashion,
That's not why my thumbnail is blue.
My wrist is arthritic and so is my elbow
(there's something 'bout cold steel and hell),
But see this dark streak on the top of my forearm?
A hot shoe can get you as well.
The mule wasn't big, and he didn't kick hard,
that left my right knee in a cast.
The brace on my leg only got in the way,
I quit using it week before last.
The ring of the anvil has deadened my eardrums,
so when I don't hear you I fake it.
But I hear you now, and I can't help but grin,
when you ask me "How does your back take it?"
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