Where did I come from, then? Ah! where, indeed?
This is a riddle monstrous hard to read.
I have it! Why, of course,
All things are moulded by some plastic force,
Out of some atoms somewhere up in space,
Fortuitously concurrent anyhow;—
There, now!
That’s plain as is the beak upon my face.
What’s that I hear?
My mother cackling at me! Just her way,