With this prior to shots, it’s done by cops, Or it’s served Irish, twin burns when it’s hot. The cream in a bean crop, rises to its top. Contains the floats, of rooted pops.

Made from wood traditionally, the family meets round me you see. To sup and regale tales of the day, unfortunately they never stay.

I directed the masses in my day, but now I'm more often thrown away. The richest amongst you once sought to own me, but now I'm rarely if ever seen. I was known as the Gray Lady because I'm rather plain, but can you guess my common name?

Silent guardians of history, sculpted by time's hand, they stand steadfast against the elements. Unyielding and ancient, they cradle the earth's secrets, whispering tales of past eons in their stony silence.

Sweet orb on a stick, Colors swirl, a sugary dream, Melts, joy disappears.