Les sat and fiddled his hat, one that is flat For his congrats, But something proved a hassle All because of its...

The more I clean, the more dirty I get Before the course, I am preset What am I?

I sound like sweetness, a pet name; I was a scourge, stoker of war's flame.

Printed. Dyed. Under a tie. Cotton or poly. Full sleeved or shy. Remove just one letter, its profane in its cry. The upper half’s sheath. Some pocketed high.

I bend what’s straight so sight can crawl, Through metal halls with none at all. No windows here, yet crews still cope, What am I?