Lent my hand to the man with the plan to fix my finger
Lent my hand to the man whose elan’s in surgery
Painful, crooked and swelled, looked like a hook on a pirate out at sea
Where his hand no more stands, so he rants in blasphemy

The scalpel doc took, opened a hole, he looked at all the tendons
He could discern that it needed tendin’ and then needed mendin’
So out he took giant cells that had made the digit swell
The finger that’s labeled number 3
Had been making me lame, unable to flip off my enemies

Lent my hand to the man with the plan to fix my finger
Lent my hand to the man who is grand in surgery
Pained and crooked and swelled, looked like a crook that might have wielded JC
In land with sand where he panned Rome’s brand of hegemony

Doc’s a master, and so the surgery was quite easy sleddin’
Nothing left to do after that but the threadin’
The pattern was real nice after he’d done the slice
And the sutures were a deep cobalt blue
When he dug out the stuff, some hand therapy would ensue

And it was time for CHT*

Put my hand in the hands with a plan to work my finger
Put my hand in the hands whose elan’s post-surgery
Pained, still looked pretty swelled
They undertook aggressive hand therapy
Worked my hand with a plan to boost flexibility


*certified hand therapy.