Handful

She was a handful in more ways than one,

A handful even when her life began. 

Tiny, not much more than his four fingers long,

Her father held her in one hand and sang to her a song.  

"You are so sweet my dear petite, you rest upon my hand,

For that my child, I christen thee, ' Handful ', and proclaim it to the land.”  

Handful was tiny, that was true, but she made up for it in spunk.  

Her father had been wild, too; but compared to her, he was a monk.  

She was terrible in her twos, traveling with the dogs.  

Biting back bite for a bite, as they chased the hogs.  

Dirt and dust from head to toe, she slept up in the tiles,

Grabbing food from the fire, wearing naught but smiles.  

Preferring manly ways, she ran with the boys instead,

Always thoughts beyond her place rose up in her head.  

She learned her wily ways, bargaining not to fight,

It kept her feminine, somehow, and saved her in the night.  

She left her village in the dark, her father at her heels.  

In the town, she sold flowers and begged for the wheels.  

To the city with its pleasures, and its treasures true,

But Handful longed for something else across the waters blue.  

In factories she did toil, her fingers to the bone,

But as hard as Handful worked, she refused to call the factory home.  

Instead, with a helping handful from a man of ill repute,

She crossed the seas to America, a handful without dispute.  

Handful had become a young woman of beauty so fresh and rare,

That everywhere Handful went, the men would stop and stare.  

Her exotic dark-eyed good looks soon brought her to her fame,

That she could sing with the angels further made her name.  

Handful sang and danced her way across the stage to everyone's delight,

Soon, she was making movies and working day and night.  

Though many men wanted her, a handful’s all they got.

She used and abused them, and gave them up for naught.

Though many men wooed her, and asked her for her hand,

She threw their advances aside, and dreamed of a faraway land.  

Where she could run naked and barefoot in the dusty streets,

Where dogs and hogs would join her for some tasty treats.

But that could not happen; it never could again,

Instead, her fame and fortune grew, and spread across a land.  

Handful died without husband or children in a foreign land,

Her beauty and her friends had fled, but she remained,

A handful to the end.

Copyright 2001 © Ronald W. Hull

12/16/01



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