Beneath its surface I cannot live.
Neither can I live without.
A type of torture, a source of life,
And lacking in a drought.
I’ve come to the riddle poem in A Kick in the Head.
Actually, I was there yesterday and thought, I could just skip this one.
I am so NOT a riddle fan.
I’d rather write a sonnet than a riddle.
Riddles are just irritating to me. They reek of guesswhatImthinking — and that just bugs me.
It bugged me when Samson did it — I mean, really, honey in a lion carcass? That’s just gross. (see Judges 14)
So there is my riddle, at the top, for what it’s worth.