Pickin' up sticks
Pickin' up sticks It's a mixed bag, picking up sticks. So many seem to have fallen from my collector's pack. I try to set them up on my path far enough away from each other to see the space between them. Pickin' up sticks, pickin' up sticks, in the mix. I am a mix of sticks. What's in your bag? What's your bag? Mine is to find the old and create anew. I'm makin' them into a house, a house of sticks. Will it fall over at the slightest blow like this? How can I fix the sticks so that they will wear the storm and bend? Breakin' down sticks, breakin' down sticks, bye, bye brittleness. Take a seat, sticks. What if my seat were made of sticks, like a wicker throne on a round pedestal? 'Round and 'round the the wicker winds under my legs. Will it always support me? Am I stuck here on this throne? 'Round, 'round the wicker sticks, 'round, 'round the wicker sticks... I'm not full of sticks. I'm a solid tree trunk, wrapp...