I have wings, but I can't fly. I have ribs, but I can't breathe. When the sky is on fire, I can always be found.

I hide behind a row of tiny stars. Without my help, you will not pass.

Curved little boats of silver or plastic, I ferry islands of soup to waiting lips. I stir the pot, I measure a dash, I clink in a drawer full of kin

I am often small, unless you are planning a grand scheme. And I am often silly unless you find me in a sophisticated cuisine.

What is put in our drink; yet for bovine poor feed For pollution we think; that less plastic we need. It's a turtle's mistake; for this is their cancer. If befuddled this make; we grasp for this answer.