A big purple goodness, given many names, one of them would be a chickens kids with some fauna

Babies and grown men both use me alike. For the man, a cold brew, and food for the tyke.

In fields of brass, I stand proud, shaping sounds that travel loud. On beast or band, guide or guard, my call echoes near and far.

Some are an eternal thing Some are found on old hot-rods Or frenzied in Elden Ring Or lit to start the Olympics, for Greek Gods

A place to read, A place to recline, No rest for your arms, But one for your behind. What am I?