Magic pickle sparkle root
If I was a wise philosopher
Well I would sit and whittle truth
From clouded confusion of crowding delusions so loud in profusion
These confounding variables.
But I'm but a buttonmaker
With a penknife and a pen
With woods and pearls and ivories
And occassionally some tin.
A simple buttonmaker
Making saucers, circles, sometimes squares and stars
Mind like mouth or stable door, constantly ajar
Though a million truths may be
Some secret, old or new
I know one or two
One or two I know
Or at least I think I do.
Sitting making buttons here's a truth that I can share
The bit that makes a bauble a button
Is the hole, that's the bit that isn't there.
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