Now you're stone.
The opposite is thirsty, papa. It's fine to drink, since we're mammals. (And why not put us on toast?)
You're just a deep hole, with water at the bottom. Oh drip drip - and smug whatever was drank at noon the following year. Catalogue it all, baby. Write it down, sort it out, make it good. OH YEAH. If you drink it up, my gammon will swallow it down. Glub, glub.
Some grout (not appearing in this story) sipped happily, getting more for his potato dollar.
The old well says hi, but won't look you in the eye. The old well pulls out a bucket on a rope, and uses the rope to lower the bucket into you. When he pulls it back up, the bucket is full of water. He drinks it and can scarcely conceal his joy. He leaves. You miss him. You get nothing for your potato dollar.
A pear-shape stops in mid-drink, and is eager to reimburse you for the damages, but you'll have none of it. The pear-shape hauls out a potato, and drops it into you. Gravity does its dirty work. SPLASH.
You have clearly gotten more for your potato dollar, I thank you.