If mutts could meow, and tabbies could bark; If pencils wiped clean, but erasers could mark; If the grass were blue, And the sky was green; What would the answer, To this riddle have been?

Golden crown with a face that turns, Chasing warmth as the bright orb burns. Fields of yellow stretch afar, Nature's compass to the distant star.

I’m winter’s dodgeball, cold, round, and launched with intent.

Thirsty or angry? Polar? Perhaps. Vacuous power, Will whirl, then collapse. The eye of the devil, The hole of the worm, The drain-dancing Sucker who twists, twirls and turns

I wear a helmet, rugged and brown, From towering palms I tumble down. Crack my shell, hear water sing, A hidden lake in a wooden ring. White snow hides beneath my coat, Island treasure, sailor’s note.