Piercing in tone, More Callas than Bocelli, Your throat holds your song, Mine seethes in my belly

Silky, still, sublime; Artwork abandoned, alone, Covering corners.

Five nails go into me, they all remain seen. I can also be a wood. The scent is fresh and clean. My name starts grainy: coarse, rough, getting everywhere. Without my straps, I'd be a lone sole. Your feet would be left bare.

without me you cant enter this venue and view the wonderful attraction on display

I'm related to the spoon, with a much deeper cradle. One thing's more certain, you might see me on a kitchen table. With pots of soup and gravy, too, you'll consider me a handy staple.