Where do all the lost things go, like pens and pegs and socks?
Remote controls and library books and keys for little locks?
Where do all the hair pins go? What about the glasses?
The paperclips? Elastic bands? The buttons and train passes?
Could it be that all those things are swept far out to sea?
And whale sharks trade them with their friends and charge a whopping fee?
Or maybe there’s a palace built by ants deep underground,
Each table, chair and throne is made from things the ants have found.
Or maybe, just perhaps, there lives a bird who likes such things,
And there you’ll find them tucked into a nest that’s fit for kings.
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