I look at
my finger tips, and see,
prints, patterns of my identity,
whorls of lines that run so free
showing you are you, that I’m me.
The fingerprint, such a funny thing
you look at it, and it doesn’t bring
any extra sense of who you are,
every one is different by far.
No help at all day by day,
seemingly nothing to say
about your character within
they‘re just there and make me grin.