Forgetful Jones

My finger has a string on it
but I can’t tell you why.
I don’t remember what it’s for.
It makes me want to cry.

I must have put it there myself
so I would not forget.
But I can’t think of what it’s for.
No thoughts have hit me yet.

I don’t know how long it’s been there;
I really wish I knew.
It must have been on for some time.
My finger’s turning blue.

And this is not unusual.
It happens now and then.
But for the life of me, you know,
I can’t remember when.

I hope I will remember soon.
This finger’s really sore.
And if another one falls off
then I’ll be down to four.