Most days the deputy of this town let's
Hand run free. So he flows, faster than the
Amazon, trampling from left to
right through the street, stopping for nobody.

Lately he’s strict, hungry for utter perfection,
“Follow the rules” he sternly orders, slowing
what once had no bounds to near crawling.
Hand obeys, afraid to break the law.

Grow a damn backbone I urge him but
he never will. Struck by his
cowardice I’m driven to incomparable anger,
quick to belittle his deflated soul.

Hanging head, he’s ashamed to show me his
fear of the deputy, more that he can’t
fulfil the requests of the law for
nothing but complete perfection.

How could I be so careless, for it’s not Hand’s
error, but that of the deputy. chase of
perfection drove the law man to
restrict hand, making him nervous to please.

I counsel him in the error of my ways,
as well as the flaws in his.
Vowing to never belittle the fellow, he
promises to never succumb to the deputy.

He runs free now, proud of the chaos and
beauty he wakes, appreciative of every step
and error he’s made. In this town the deputy
is useless, because only Hand knows
the meaning of perfection.