Here sits idle my ready hand, to spill forth words to read to man. Five great fingers, one great fist, spinning round on moving wrist. Here it alone, without complaint, paper tapestry it doth paint. Five strong, thin bones do hold one pen, spill forth meanings of modern men. Cursed live flesh now quiet stand, travel my words to the end of my hand. The day I die chop this thing off. Preserve it forever, at my own cost. For it alone was instrument, for all my words it set in print.