An octopus arm has a mind of its own
When it's cut off from contact with all that it's known
It will travel the floor of the wide open sea
And put food where it knows that a mouth used to be
Makes me wonder what my severed hands would still know
Would they know that k-j exits vim insert mode?
Was it they all along who could strike minor chords?
Would they drum on a counter if they became bored?
Would they sense that a freshly penned word was misspelled?
Would they still want affection and long to be held?
Would they know how to carefully pack a snowball?
Would they think of me fondly or never at all?