Hands -- An Unneccessary Poem

The resident blogger has taken an overlong respite, rather doing more reading and less writing than asked for a blog upkeeper; here, then, is some desperate attempt to reestablish a promising page.

Hands undoubtledly mark
to humans, all hark!
The mark of supreme superiority, you see,
for it is the thumb that makes superemecy.

Without a thumb, we may not pinch
that poor fellow on his birthday, who has just grown an inch;
and without our thumbs what will we do,
as we kneel upon a knee, and attempt to tie a shoe?

It is the thumb, without doubt,
that makes the heart humble and stout,
for without the thumb and the other four quintupled,
what have men to scuffle
the ruffled hair of a pooch or kitten?

Hands, oh hands! You are two, indeed,
the duet of the body in utter symmetry.
What shouled become of the race of man
without his necessitious hands?