In the attic, a cozy glow, when turned to life, it steals the show. A glassy dome, so bright, yet small, dispels the dark for one and all.

Forwards, I am cylinders with rims and made to store Backwards, I am vessels small, across the waves I soar

Sometimes you can find hot, scantily dressed firefighters in me. You can gawk at them all year long. Don’t get all fired up about it though, it’s all for a good cause.

I crown the champion, the poet, the king, Yet I am a simple, green, woven thing. A collection of verses, a chain with no key, Hung over the doorway or wrapped round a tree. What am I?

Bowler or 10 gallon, fedora or such... if you can't find one you like there is no rush