Evil, evil, evil hands

Our hands tell a story,
A nice one, so don't worry.
Unless your hands are drenched in unclean blood,
In that case, you should wash them, you really should.
It's so easy though,
For our hands to tell lies to us, like we don't really know.
What we're capable of,
And we don't, all we know is the all too familiar push and shove.
What if our hands didn't lie,
And revealed to us all that's inside.
Because our hands reflect our heart,
Our hands reflect our minds in the dark.
Our hands hide the most gruesome of truths,
The ones we keep hidden away, not the lies we sell from our wore out vender's booth.
If our hands could speak,
They'd say evil things, that would make the darkest of evil's knees go weak.
There is so much more to us than we know,
But our hands are smart enough not to let it show.
After all, how would it look shaking hands with the preacher, and it be covered in filthy greed?
How would it look to hold your lover's hand, and it hold another lover's seed?
How would it look to tell your brother you love him,
While down your hands runs the blood of his children.
How would your hands look if they told the truth?
The cleanest and smoothest of skins hold the darkest dreams,
And the roughest and most course of skins, be the most pure and clean?
Would and old man's hands be covered in unwilling young girl's lust,
Would a young child's hands, be something you still trust?
But clever clever little hands,
They always have an evil little plan.
They hide the truth for so long it seems,
And then creep up on you, and let your self burst through the seams.
Evil, evil, evil hands,
Build up nations and tear down lands.
Evil, evil, evil hands,
How much longer will you pretend?