I’m painted on walls, not on paper you know, I’m old and I’m dry, but my colors still glow. I show saints or stories from long, long ago. What kind of painting am I? Do you know?

Inside my frame, taut strings lie still, until small hammers do their will. My black and white are not of a beast, yet under deft fingers, songs are released.

It may be done to your vision. You may store important and not so important stuff there. You may see one if you look up.

An edge honed to a fine razor point, assuming proper maintenance. Great as a chopper, slicer, or a cutter, it's NOT for cutting poop, so get your minds out the gutter!

Why did the family picture go to prison?