I wear a crown of seeds, a patty for my heart, Layers of green and red, a culinary work of art. Though I'm often held in hand, I’m a king in my own right.

I have many keys, but open no door, hidden hammers strike at my core. Black and white in ordered row, beneath your fingers, I sing and flow.

I am a palace built for the dead, Where a crown is replaced by a stone o'er the head. A monument carved out of sorrow and pride, To honor the secrets and spirits inside.

This pencil case just wont move, neither will this pen and notepad. No, its still still

You can make as many of me in winter, But need only three of me to make a person, And only one of me to start a fight.