Whither wandereth my hand
A mind of its own no thought or plan
Now all these mistakes seem to stand
Unacceptable to the compulsive scan
Now blanking the glaring goof
White covers the convulsing confusion
Concealing blinding stupidity’s proof
Perfection triumphs with compelling illusion
Cunning it makes all unblemished
Conceits and lapses all confuddled
Snow top glares atop the blunder
Sweeps under carpet all the muddle
Absolute accuracy will not be plundered
Today it would not be a misstep I think
To paint nails white instead of pink
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about small things, nothings and the somethings in between
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