I'm stuck in a loop, always the same, but different everytime. My cargo don't. The name you know me by is a nickname, my real one tells you I'm public. Standard fare, really.

Up a hill two children went, a mission on their mind, something heavy on their side. They fetched from a well and hurried down the hill. It swings by one handle, from hillside to shore, A farmer’s friend and seaside builder. What am I?

Up a hill two children went with a mission on their mind, They fetched from a well and hurried down the incline. It swings by one handle, from hillside to shore, A farmer’s friend and seaside builder. What am I?

A singer with a toothy grin upon a wooden stage, It hums a sharp, serrated tune to turn a golden page. It carves through yellow mountainside with cold and biting art, To steal away a wedge of gold and tear the wheel apart.

Fuelled by oil stored in me, Pilots might do a roll of me, To avoid a bullet shot out of me. People might play with monkeys released from me, Or drink far too much ale stored within me, And the next day feel that they'd scraped the bottom of me