I may pour drinks, throw strikes, or lure a fly, one sits on tables, one aims high. One waits in gardens, green and still, what am I, with more than one will?

I'm tiny and sweet, in red, blue, or black. Birds love to find me for a tasty snack. I grow on bushes and sometimes on vines.

I’m born from the dirt, but my fate is gold, A humble root with stories untold I dance in oil where flames run high, Then release an aroma that makes mouths sigh My first name whispers of romance and art, Of cobblestone streets and a cultured heart My second speaks of a fiery fate, A golden transformation I cannot escape Crisp on the outside, soft within, I’m the salty treasure that pulls you in I arrive by the handful, never alone, And somehow vanish before I’m known. What am I?

While a single one of these is a sight, what I am is way more tight. Peaks, valleys, foot hills abound, I'm like the ground turned upside down. If the answer still eludes, just check out the Appalachians dudes!

as it turns out, i'm an actual fruit like straw and rasp or black and blue. but i'm rare and red and a type of cran and my name might be amusing to you. call a person by my name, he'll look a fool and feel dumb. and of course i could also mean a fecal remnant stuck on your bum.