Riddonkulous has forty, I have thirty-one. I wish I knew what number three is. Start with a type of museum, followed by a word that starts hypotheticals. Finish with a book of the New Testament.

I start with a wire but now travel through space. I deliver swift words to any far place. My first half tells weight, or a message of old. My second half sends a sharp, written fold.

I cut the gold from Sif’s fair hair, then paid it back with craft and care. I shaped a storm in hammer’s form, through trick and wager, slyly borne. And from a sprig both soft and slight, I stole away the god of light.

Where ancient secrets still are unknown. For birds and eyes look back at the stone. Read me left or read me right, The Rosetta Stone brought me to light.

I walked the earth in ages past, through eras far too old to last. Some wore feathers, some wore scales, now I survive in bones and tales.