I stick to hands, I stick to shoes, you’ll find me long after the great news. A shimmer here, a sparkle there, now I’m somehow in your hair. I’m craft’s delight and janitor’s dread, a plague of sparkle, widespread.

You hear me once, you might smile. Hear me twice, and laugh a while. But if I fall flat, you’ll groan or sigh.

A bull in a china shop, with feet that dance like bricks, a hand that seeks grace but finds mishaps in its wake.

A twist of a poem and a questions path, your brain confused as you read through. Solving me may leave you with a laugh, but failing me can leave you with a sigh, too.

What type of room has no doors or windows?