I rest on tables, filled with fare, or race down lanes through open air. I cradle meals or chase a strike, I’m one word that lives a double life.

I'm made of parts That share my name, Yet don't assume That we're the same. They're bound in words, While I may roam, To some far place Beyond our home.

A single glass guardian, perched high with pride, keeps one eye keen while the other hides. A fashion of the past, a lens of the elite. Balanced on the bridge, a vision discreet.

When it's hot outside, dip into me, and splash around with joyful glee. No matter if I'm deep or shallow, as long as there's water in me, life feels mellow.

I am a symbol of French cuisine, but my origins can be traced back to thirteenth century Austria. Making me by hand takes a lot of time.