I stand in the midst of a thousand hands,
Each one writes a thought, drafts a poem grand,
That mournfully drifts over desert sands,
Or tells of the kings in a distant land.

Now some hands are picked for a noble cause,
To write on the gates for all eyes to see.
Now my hand is picked; for with Ben’s applause
My essays and poems with his sense agree.

The Writing at Apricotpie begins!
Hear now our thoughts; here are our pens.

Now stand twenty-eight of our working hands,