I stop arguments before they start by politely saying, your yard ends here.

Where forests stand proud and tall, I answer with a crashing fall. Each swing resounds with a thunderous crack. Who am I with an axe on my back?

As it, describes the high. With air, it complies. A running ascension. Less a brace, it denies. If it’s first was a ‘T’: It’s how to keep the line. If your grip has a slip, You can kiss it goodbye.

I’m where the vinyl’s spirit moves, A winding path the needle proves. I’m carved in circles, far out, smooth. Find me, friend, and feel the ? The ? is in the heart! What am I?

Traveling overseas? Keep in mind that without this document you may not proceed through the entrance to the harbour.