Bread thick of thin, depends where it's made. Top me with meats and veggies, don't forget the cheese. I would be yelled at in New York, I always use a knife and fork.

I am made of mud and straw, baked in the sun, and used to make walls for buildings. What am I?

Polo, Chariot, and Coach render me well. And I often prance around in a Carousel.

In the cosmic dance, they blaze bright, icy voyagers with fiery tails, whispering secrets of the past as they streak across the night sky, a celestial spectacle fleeting but unforgettable.

Light and flaky, please just bake me, till golden brown, then go to town.