I just found, in a book, a tatty bit of paper, upon which was written a bit of doggerel, that I wrote for my niece when she was about four. She had asked me, as children do, questions like:"What is the sky?" "Why doesn't it fall down?" "Why can't my blood be green?". The usual stuff. I could never just say to her:"I'm shaving with a straight razor, and I like my nose where it is, so just ask your dad", because he would send her back with the instruction to:"Ask your uncle - he's the know-it-all git of this family." And so, after re-attatching my nose with gaffer tape, I'd attempt to answer her queries, viz.
1) The sky is a bowl that stops all the old tat we've fired up into space falling on our heads. It was put up there by Buster Keaton and the Jetsons.
2) The sky is being held up by the giant Atlas, who lives near Turkey. Thunderstorms are caused when his mind wanders, and he drops the sky on his foot. The thunder and lightning are provided by Zeus, to drown out all the swearing that happens when the sky slips onto Atlas' unprotected foot.
3) You can only have green blood if you are a Vulcan, as ane fule kno.
Then she asked me what the white lines in the sky were, and so I wrote (and I'm not a poet, so apologies to anyone out there who is)
Under the blue bowl of sky,
I stand.
This blue is scratched,
As if by giant's hand.
Rule-straight lines,
That scour the glaze;
Etched by the jets
That traverse it's ways.
And that was what was on the crappy little bit of paper, forgotten until just now.😊