Perfect Hands Poem by Joanne West Cornish

I do not care for perfect hands
That never seem to have demands,
With perfect nails that never break
And cuticles that do not ache,
And never find a touch of dirt
Beneath the nails that sometimes hurt.

I rather love to see a hand
Belonging to a working man,
Who never minds his hands to look
As if their owner reads no book
Or finds a worrisome task to do,
The nails forgotten, chipped askew,
And only tended to at last
When company comes to end a task.
“A quick scrub up is all, ” he’ll say,
“When work is finished end of day.”
If e’er I need a helping hand,
I hope that helper is a friend
Whose beautiful and callused hand
Foretells the character of man.