It is a basket woven From whatever its maker could find Wood and straw, moss and fur So she could do what common wisdom Says never to do With a basket

Woeful me, Due to the pit I hold, My body is soft, and often sold, I fall to the ground, It bruises my round. Georgia is where I am knowingly found.

Silent composer of digital symphonies, tapping out melodies with tactile whispers. A flat orchestra, where fingers dance to summon letters from an unseen world.

I can have a double, a single or a treble, but no bass. For me you can use a hook or a needle, as you’ll find me quite versatile. Start with a loop, a slip or chain, it depends what you have to gain.

It starts with a number That may even match The number of fingers it owns You can find them in roads Or find them in drawers Or ringing out specific tones