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Hand Washing I wash my hands while I sing A B C, It is the obsessive, compulsive part of me. My hands get washed by the light of dawn, And then again when I sing that song. I wash my hands each time I pet the dog and cats, After I dress my feet or when I put on a hat. Before each meal I wash and I wash, There goes more skin, Oh dear! Oh gosh! Whenever I touch the handle of any door, I go back to the bathroom and wash once more. Each time I open the cupboard searching for food, Again to the sink to get back in the eating mood. Whenever I pull out a chair to leisurely sit down, I feel all those tiny germs just crawling around. Once more, I lean over the sink to wash and wash, My hands are all bloody, Oh dear! Oh gosh! Is this hand cream I bought safe to rub on, Or should I wash my hands again until it’s all gone. When I am out driving around town in my car, I carry bottled water because the sink is too far. If I don’t shake hands, don’t think I am mean, It is more likely I find you to be too unclean. Give me the soap so I can wash and wash, The water burns my sore hands, Oh dear! Oh gosh! If I am stuck somewhere away from a sink I pray, “Please send the rain, please save the day.” I know all this hand washing is somewhat paranoid, All I do know is it fills a deep, dark void. So I wash my hands, sometimes hours on end, I wash them once then I wash them again. I will wash my hands and then wash once more, Until my feelings of safety have been restored. |
Additional Notes:
A touch of dark humor.
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