I can’t pretend to understand
What it is to make something
Out of nothing but chaos and string
To use nothing but my hand
And perhaps a tool or two
To make a hat that would fit a king
And on brisk slicing sidewalks
That turn quickly to slide-walks
I wonder how long it would take to develop this skill
But with patience and money fleeting
And barely time for eating
It’s mostly desires like this that come to nil.
