A singer with a toothy grin upon a wooden stage, It hums a sharp, serrated tune to turn a golden page. It carves through yellow mountainside with cold and biting art, To steal away a wedge of gold and tear the wheel apart.

Fuelled by oil stored in me, Pilots might do a roll of me, To avoid a bullet shot out of me. People might play with monkeys released from me, Or drink far too much ale stored within me, And the next day feel that they'd scraped the bottom of me

In the land o' rainbows and pots of gold, I bind what’s loose with a metallic hold. A clatter o' teeth, a magical seam, I’m the luck o' the Irish on a winter coat’s scheme.

I wear a fancy hat and a wooden one at that I can be a suit but won't make you look cute I can even become food for some considered crude

A type of elastic, but not one that gives aid Unless your hairline gives you reason to be afraid. If you aim for the king, you'd best not miss. James used to wear one, before he started playing with his kids.