The Nature Of Technique

These hands cannot use quill and ink,
nor carve a blade from sharp-beat flint;
So few among us can skin a cat
and yet we dream of our delinquent arts;
oh, if only, without our work,
our daily bustle and daily groan,
if only we could throw off this yoke
what lovely craft we’d make our own;
oh, if only,
if only

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