When I was but a little girl,
I made at school a craft.
The teacher slowly shook her head,
And all the children laughed.
To be a person skilled in arts,
I was not meant to be.
With murals, masks, or macramé,
I’ve no proficiency.
I could not knit a sweater
An afghan or a sock,
Nor could I draw with charcoal
Or make a small pet rock.
I baked a man of gingerbread;
The outcome was incredible.
I had to throw it out because
It sadly was inedible.
I tried my hand at needlepoint,
But the stitches were too wide.
To find out what the message said,
You would have to be cross-eyed.
To throw a piece of pottery
I gave a go one day.
The bowl of clay I’d fashioned
I had to throw away.
Because on crafts I’d not give up,
I worked on decoupage.
The project was so hideous,
It went in the garage.
I planned to stamp a greeting card,
But it turned out appalling.
I knew I’d have to face the fact
Hallmark would not come calling.
I could not weave a tapestry,
A basket, or a purse.
I could not design jewelry;
With oil paints I was worse.
You would not see me piece a quilt
Or pour wax for a candle.
To work with leather, glass, or wood
Is more than I can handle.
God saw my lack of skills at craft.
And blessed me anyway.
He gave to me a loving heart
And laughter for each day.
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