Why, if trees are grey, do we color them brown? Why, when the sea is green, do we color it blue? Why do whales, so lonely now, still sing? How is it possible that on the cold ocean floor there is lava flowing up and out, hot and fiery? Why do anvils love gravity so very much? How does a clock always know exactly what time it is, and why do its hands always use sign language to tell us? Where do fools fall in love and will someone give me a lift there? Has anyone ever been stranded like Gilligan on the Isles of Langerhans? Did they send a message in a bottle? Was the bottle blue like a bluebottle fly or green like Robin Hood’s hat? If whiskey from Scotland is Scotch, why isn’t whiskey from America Amertch? And if a very large truck is called a semi, what would we call one twice as big? These are not questions that keep me up at night. This is only a paragraph of prose that yearns to grow up to be a poem.