Above your brows I boldly spread, A patch of calm before what’s said. I wrinkle when you think or dread, And shine when overheated.

With a pole up my backside. I feel no pain. That might change If I only had a brain.

A whole-y cone, useful in the alchemist’s tools, Filling flasks, gas cans, a mechanic’s dream.

A silent companion in moments of sorrow, it absorbs your worries by the tearful morrow. Thin as a whisper, soft as a dream, often found where noses gleam.

Golden rows in fields of green, a sunlit dance in summer's sheen. Whispered tales of harvest's horn, a staple born since time has worn.