Remove my first, I’m the hair on the back of an animal’s neck when threatened. Change my third for an E, and I sound like money used in Israel. My first five go after a shake, or a place to hide out, unkept. Altogether I am things that keep me bound, usually by hands and feet, preventing you from being free.

I sound like a goose that learned how to yell, but I need air and squeezing to work well. I never play quietly, day or night, love me or fear me, I bring loud delight.

I am a tall, slender tower, a finger pointing to the sky, Where a voice calls out five times a day, making the faithful fly. I have no doors at the bottom, but a path to the top I keep, To see the world and spread the call while others are asleep.

I have deep walls but no rooms, and my floor is always shifting. I'm a place where rock is hunted, but no animals are living. What am I?

Lessons we're taught to follow, though they are rarely the same. Some are clear, and their purpose apparent, while others are no game. Twisting your brain, vague at their core, And at Ikea they are but a joke, nothing less, nothing more.