Honestly I didn’t mean to sound rude,
There seems be many people telling me what to do,
Only one Indianan with so many chiefs,
The sudden invasion is wearing me beyond belief.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate you help,
For I know that there’s many things I can’t do myself,
It’s not really the fact you’re touching my things,
Rather the method and madness your help brings.
It’s lack of respect that you often show,
As you tidy my table and put away my dough,
The way you toss things about show you don’t care,
That hurts my feelings and causes despair.
They may look like simply only pencils to you,
And old Crayons with some chalk in there too,
But as you standing there tossing them in a box,
There usefulness and value are about to be lost.
You see these are the tools of my trade,
Each pencil has a place where in needs to be laid,
The don’t take kindly to being just toss about,
There life is soon shorten with each shattering bounce.
Just as oils aren’t oils, my pastels are just pastels,
They now come in pencils, oils and chalks,
Though they many look at like they don’t get along,
My oil pastels cause my chalks pastels to decay.
The pictures you stack are ooee and gluey
And once they are set you’ve created a glue,
I hust look with them with a tear in my eye,
Hours of work I place in the bin to say good bye.
So I mean no disrespect for your help you see,
My requests come both with rhyme and reason,
When you act in
such disrespectful ways,
Sometimes don’t touch is easier to say.
My life as a artist may seem different to yours,
I don’t quite understand the distress my mess seems to
cause,
Nor your insistence my house should look like yours,
So I ask as you touch my artwork be aware the damage you
could cause.
Debbie Chilton © Copyright 2013
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