We make milk without a teat. We make butter for your lotion. We're all standing in a row Or up high beside the ocean.

On dials and softwoods we're found. Our insistence just might gall, But an 's' makes us gratuitous, Which goes without saying at all.

I’m in the air, though scarce and small, You breathe me in, yet never notice at all. I carry a noble name and stay free, Rarely joining others, just content to be me. When power runs through me, I shine, Lighting up signs with a cool, ghostly line.

You can size us up with letters Or measure flour for your scone. If I manage all your printers, You're gonna miss me when I'm gone.

I'm a small bit of hair, but often more, You can't sleep before doing me to your door. I sound like a lake with a Scottish shore, With my friend load, I'm certainly no bore.