What does man love more than life,
Fear more than death or mortal strife.
What the poor have, the rich require,
and what contented men desire.
What the miser spends and the spendthrift saves,
And all men carry to their graves?
I can sizzle like bacon,
I am made with an egg,
I have plenty of backbone, but lack a good leg,
I peel layers like onions, but still remain whole,
I can be long, like a flagpole, yet fit in a hole.
What am I?
It can't be seen, can't be felt,
can't be heard and can't be smelt.
It lies behind stars and under hills,
and empty holes it fills.
It comes first and follows after,
ends life and kills laughter.
What is it?
I may seem real yet I am not,
Once you're gone I'm often forgot.
Time here stretches and it shrinks,
It all depends on how you think.
I may be good, I may be bad,
I may be the same as one you've had.
What am I?
Four jolly men sat down to play,
and played all night till break of day.
They played for gold and not for fun,
with separate scores for every one.
Yet when they came to square accounts,
they all had made quite fair amounts!
Can you the paradox explain?
If no one lost, how could all gain?