Because a willful gene somehow misread
The promptings in those twists of DNA
That grant to others easy passageway
Through thicketed words, you inherited
A lexicon of chaos, where, instead
Of lines of thought arranged in neat wordplay,
Your mind, though keen, found only disarray
And senseless letters, alpha unto zed.
Yet, you have trained yourself to write.
So as the discipline of your own will
Gave to the motions of your body skill
And acts repeated well gave you delight
In games, may you, with things to say, impart
By grace of practice meaning to your art.