In the palm, I rest, a guardian of breath, a pocket-sized savior when air feels like a test. With a squeeze and a puff, I grant relief, a quick escape from the chest's silent grief.

Oh dear lord I seem to have broken my gourd Whatever will I use to fix it?

What is cut on a table, but never eaten?

A golem of straw In fields where crops lay A guardian among corn To scare murders away

We're gonna do this to the town with a can of red pigment! But don't get yourself stuck in a corner with all the wet liquid!