In the land of zest and tang, where green wears its brightest hue, a citrus sprite dances on your tongue, making the sour feel brand new.

Ten of me make a dollar dance, small and round, in pockets I prance. With a touch of silver, I gleam, worth less than my shine may seem.

Soft breath, secrets told, Fleeting sound, then it's gone, Silence is its tomb.

I speak without words and glide without wings, I leap through the air with graceful spins. Satin on my feet, a stage bathed in light, I tell silent stories throughout the night.

As a weapon of precise aim, I'm often associated with a board on a bar's wall or with the toxic potential of a jungle frog