I have a buckle but no shoes. I wrap around and hug you from your middle Unlike you ex, I hold things tight and together

My dryer eats them, my dogs destroy them, and we learned the right way to put them on in Finding Forrester.

Whispers from Pandora's box, a fire that fuels the stars and a cat's nine lives, ever seeking the unknown paths, yet not a single door will ever close. Also, it killed the cat...

When you need to rest or snooze, my four legs are yours to use. Potatoes spend too much time on me when they should be out and running free. Two notes make up my name, it's true, though I will never sing to you.

My first four a lie, a bogus farce, My last three something that comes from an arse. My whole dances foamily upon your top, Coaxing clean, shimmery waves from your filthy mop.