They say we’re mostly made of water
Sixty percent to be precise
And in summer I feel like I aught’a
Evaporate into the skies

But I wonder which sixty percent
Gets vaporised up to the clouds
And what gets left behind
To stay on solid ground?

If I had to guess and I’m guessing blind
My shoes and my clothes
And my bones you would find
And my head would be
In the clouds
Floating along with my mind.

Head in the Clouds - A short poem about the dangers of daydreaming.