It Runs In The Family Poem by Loyd C Taylor Sr

Slyly, from corner of squinted eye he looks.
Then, when he’s sure no spy can be found,
He uses his unused hand to conceal his art,
Then feigns prayer, twisting his finger around.

Shyly, his favorite finger lifts from his books,
And inserts where he augers up and down.
He uses his nail, as a skilled surgeon scalpels a heart,
Then pay dirt brings his face a fond frown.

Sky-ly, screeching screams are heard, as those of sooted rooks,
Snapping his thoughts back to where they should be.
He returns his flexed finger to the stance of its start,
As he looks forward to his next picking spree.