I know this one. The answer's seventeen
black buttons, and a quart of castor oil,
assuming you mean what I think you mean.
Although the pole may splinter on the green,
the thread unspool, the ghost milk go to spoil,
I know this one. The answer's seventeen.
In coughing so, whilst buffing to a sheen
that ball of brass, that sheet of baking foil,
assuming you mean what I think, you mean
to ask me just how many years it's been
since last I cried, my temper at a boil,
"I know this one!" The answer's seventeen.
How many cornfields must the gleaner glean
before he reaps the gains of honest toil?
I know this one; the answer's seventeen,
assuming you mean what I think you mean.
--
Shall we be pure or impure? Today
we shall be very pure. It must always
be possible to contain
impurities in a pure way.
--Tarmo Uustalu and Varmo Vene
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