Tiny teeth that meet and greet, I can bite your skin or be discreet. Up I go, down I glide, I’m the line where fabric worlds collide!

Container seen at a cookout to keep the drinks right. This time of year those aren’t a typical sight. The weather may be warmer where you live at, but the answer is the opposite of that, when you might wear a scarf and a beanie hat.

A swift, sharp dance of metal, trimming tales with a tiny tune. In the garden or the salon, its song sings of transformation.

There once was a logger, they say, Who shunned the machinery of today. He prefered no motors to shout, just a blade to swing about, and working his muscles this way.

I slither between the buildings, a narrow path or a shortcut. In a game of pins, they bowl in me. In a game of hoop, I come before the oop.