I am a slow thief with no hands, a quiet hunger none withstands. I fade the flesh, yet leave no scar, a whispered end that travels far.

I am born from milk but I am not a drink, Left alone with time, I change more than you think. I can be soft or hard, mild or strong in taste, Mice may chase me though that’s a risky haste.

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I'm tall and pointy, reaching high, Right up toward the blue, blue sky. I sit on churches, towers, steep, What am I that's so very steep?

If Radagast spent lots of time in an arcade, he might have become this.