When Bo’s up front, it can be a such a drag. Every two years you’ll see, there are five on a flag. ‘Of fire’, sung the man with the all black attire. When down on one knee, it’s the gift of desire.

you can wear me on your foot but I'm also fun to ride with the help of gravity take a seat and you will glide

I hold your treasures but have no hands. I can fade away like smoke, yet stay sharper than steel. I can be shared with a friend, or kept locked in your mind. The older I get, the more precious I become.

I'm often found at the back, a place for food and fun, I can lower down with a clack, when the party's just begun. I might hold a cooler or a grill, ready for a feast, But I have no mouth, though I'm often filled. What am I?

How can you accuse me, Of what it is, that you do best? It makes me boil with anger, Causing bellows from my chest. My toll of weight is held, in goals and fingers nonetheless. Either way you’ll want a spot. My handle held to pour or sweat.