I'm deatly thin with a wandering eye, My talent is getting under your skin, I come with baggage - a thread, not a lie It won’t hurt a bit, they say as I come in.

In a court with lines so neat and tall, Where a bouncing sphere takes charge of all, It flies through the air, With expert flair, And swishes through the net to the crowd's call.

A tool or a weapon, both found in kind A chip on your shoulder, bring one to grind A friend offers theirs, when you're in a bind Should you obtain it, you've been unassigned

I am an animal product, with a medieval feel. I reigned a good part of the millennium though, until I was dethroned by steel. I drink from a little vase, on paper and parchment I leave my trace.

Rings that attatch to eachother look great. I ordered something, the deliverer's on their way...