This poignant poem is written by Mick Westwood …
I have a ‘dithery hand’, It’s hard to hold a pen,
It doesn’t happen all the time, It starts alright, and then,
It begins to shake and wobble, like a jelly in a fight,
And then before you know it, – I can’t read what I write.
It’s the same when eating dinner, I really do feel poor,
I miss me mouth, me ‘north and south’, and I chuck peas on the floor,
And If I’m drinking something, it never will behave,
And then I find I stand behind, a ‘Tetley’s’ tidal wave.
Each visit with a razor, at shaving time as well,
Is like a joust with a sharpened sword, for never can you tell,
Just when a ‘shake’ will happen, in any time or place,
And shave off half an eyebrow, or decimate your face.
I have to be quite careful, in anything I do,
And plan each operation right, just to see me through,
For if I am doing ‘bookwork’, with my hand upon my neck,
It’ll wait till I’m not looking, then it’ll write itself a cheque!
So if you see me coming, in a jumper coloured blue,
Just with a stain of a teabag, or a little bit of stew,
Do not judge me harshly, don’t condemn me through the land,
I did my best, but I’m afraid the rest, – is down to my ‘dithery hand’!
Written by Mick Westwood
( Copyright Michael Westwood 2015 )