I have many twisting arms but no hands, and I drink from the sun and the rain. My children are born in heavy purple or green clusters, only to be crushed so they may age in a cellar.

In the days before steam trains I got you there with one pony of muscle And four wheels of hustle

I dance through the desert with a name like a warrior's pride; I am a helicopter that gives the enemy nowhere to hide.

I carry your morning delight, a balancing act of porcelain and brew; I greet you in bed or on the couch, a platform both simple and true.

Arr, matey, I hide one orb, ye see, To ward off the glare o' the deep blue sea. What be this cloth that sails with me?