Like skin for a tree, a mailman may fear me.

I can break the sound barrier, not to brag. If you want to try, just grab a wet rag.

I am a house of a million halls, each sworn to one obsession. Gatekeepers wield no gavels, only arrows of judgement. Your worth is measured oddly, rising, falling, always changing. Some days bring cake for birthdays none can see yet all can share.

Your favorite plumber’s favorite tool. I make some pompous foodies drool. But deep deep down I am quite grounded. And through the rain become well rounded.

I’m a maze of voices with doors called subs, where arrows weigh words and karma is coin. An alien guards my gates, and I read it becomes my name.