My Fingers Poem by Bobert Smithsonian III

My fingers
Are not
Fingers.
They do not
Fing.

I ask them to fing
All the time.
But...
They never do!

I beg them to fing
All the time.
But...
They never do!

I ORDER them to fing
All the time.
But...
They never do!

I threatened them to fing
Today
Or else
I will chop them in half.

They did not fing
And so
I chopped them in half.
They did not scream for some
Weird reason,
But I did.

It hurt.
Ouchywawa.
I cried for my mother.
But she did not come
Because I live in Arizona
And she
Lives in Antarctica.

So she did not hear me.
Now I do not
Have fingers.

Wait...
Without fingers,
How can I be typing
This poem?