A silver serpent crosses the land. Drawing miles of straight lines, sometimes a bend. It never sleeps but lays on a bed. Like stairs taking people up, yet it always stays flat.

In the countryside it stands so proud, With silos tall and livestock loud. Fields of gold surround its frame, Where farmers toil and call its name. What is it?

I live by the Colt, die by the Colt. My code is law, but justice is bought. Who am I?

Olive, tree? Fortunes revealed! Magic technique, Cups to conceal

Like Rodin's 'The Thinker,' Perched on a pot, When lost in deep thought, I'm the best spot to squat