About one well-known person, from the perspective of another. Can you guess who they are? |
The Hand that Moves Me He made me not in his image For his skin was not green But my voice was his voice His fingers my expression He made me from a discarded coat and Ping pong balls when he was fifteen I shake my head now, realizing I'm older than he would ever be He took to TV with a gang of felt misfits Painting numbers and ideas on the screen A once-dying program suddenly becoming a Street unending He made me bold, to mask his shyness What he could not say, I was always keen So much felt came to life by his hands A creature shop came to be, where He made amphibian, barnyard expats and rats Uninhibited vegetables and fruit were routine He'd created five children, who I met young Toiling at his shop, just to be close to him He hid behind me in confounding ways Shielding himself behind his dream While I play banjo in a swamp, singing of rainbows Or riding a bicycle with skinny new legs He gave me seven weeks on the Top 40 My own star on the walk of fame, unforeseen You, your parents, your children all know me But it was his voice, his dream all along He left us in 1990, breathlessly snatched away But the dream must go on: we reconvened Finally honoring a lifetime of selfless genius By looking down and feigning shock |