A barber knows me, beekeepers too. The phone in your pocket might surprise you, too.

In Detroit, I play some ball. As Simba, became king of them all In the land of Oz, a coward, full of dread On safari, carry a mane in its head

I am born in a cherry, but I am not a fruit. I am roasted in fire, but I do not burn to ash. I am crushed to dust, drowned in water, and bled dry, Yet my sacrifice gives life to your morning.

For those that like to unscramble without reading This one here shouldn’t be too misleading It’s where we’re at. It’s what we do This little game for me and you.

Kick me, and you have reached the end of the road. Make my list, and adventures wait to unfold. Fill me, then lift with your knees, for I grow heavy with surprising ease.