I can swim, but I cannot fly. You might see me in a desert.

Often given when unwanted. Sometimes begged for, then used not. It can be hard to take your own. In columns you will find a lot.

Every day, you give me a command. Yet every day, you scold me for obeying. What am I?

I can be found in a deep underground place, smothered in my dark friend’s cold embrace. I’ve sparked imaginations, I’ve made people squeal, but at the end of the day, I’m still not real. What am I?

Your lips on my tip, Your fingers on my holes. Blow me nice and hard and snakes may dance on poles.