There once was a little crustacian who stole other's shells without hesitation. 'My friends tell me to stop, to be polite and just swap. But I need them for self-preservation.'

I am born when antiquity meets thread. When the dust twirls around and covers an old net. My first half, the corn, unbroken. My second half, a home for an arachnid foretold.

Mere tiny droplets, falling from the sky. But given enough time, we can weather down mountains, oh so high.

I navigate by questions asked, To walls that answer, never masked. My royalty comes from mythic tale, Borrowed shapes in night prevail. When panic sought a tiny cause, I took the blame without a pause.

An old book about citrus would contain much of me.