I'm made of nature, but I'm not alive. I'm flexible, and I can fly. I can be a swan or a butterfly. I can also come with colored lines.

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.