A winged sovereign in orange and black attire, no palace needed to inspire.

Made for surgery, but brought in now, I’d put money on a lawsuit. In the right hands, I make trees quiver, enough to yell timber and move out the way.

I hold life but am easy to throw Without mothers warmth I may never grow

I border the blue or glide without strain, the same simple word for land or for lane.

A bubbly crown on your latte delight, in seas and suds, soft and white. With a gentle touch, it quietly roams, found in waves and cappuccinos' domes.