Oh truth! Oh truth! You have to be real; If there's no truth, how can I know, right from wrong? If this pen is in my hand? Without truth, what can I know? My sweet child, my innocent child, what is this truth you seek? Can you point to it? Can you sense it? Don't be obtuse, I can't point to the truth but that doesn't make it any less true that this pen is in my hand, this blanket is grey And which part of the pen, which strands of fabric, hold that truth? You infernal skeptic! You dense man, it just means we both see it, we both feel it, over and over It's just a word that describes the reliability of experience