While I till soil and move leaves, the other leaves soil in your jeans. Our names are the same, except I'm a tool and it's a fiend.

I fear a certain monster adorned in blue. A sweet tooth, insatiable, would bite me right through. He feeds on me and others to illicit childish laughter and cheer. How do I get away from Sesame Street, where he'll oft appear? What am I?

The person who makes it has no need for it. The person who buys it never uses it. The person who uses it never knows they're using it. What is it?

I'm a fantastic form of insulation, so long as your lungs don't digest my gestation. I was once in cigarette filters, which truly hits that coffin nail on the head; hell, we used to make blankets to sleep out of this.

I’m a tiny shiny cup For royal juice or dragons sup. I’m not a mug, I’m not a bucket, Kings say cheers each time they tuck it.