Throw away the outside and cook the inside, then eat the outside and throw away the inside.

I starve at banquets I did not cook, grow fat on victories I never earned. I measure myself only with other lives, and the closer I stand to joy, the further it moves away. What am I?

The end of my name rings of the royal, But where I’m hung up could make your skin boil! I am stuffed with delights by the dozen Or by two stinky twins, and their ten wriggly cousins.

I am commonly referred to as a cob when eaten.

Where logs line up to meet their fate, Kissing a blade on their very first date. Turning lumber to planks without much fuss, Enjoy the result, but pardon our dust.