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.

Long and thin like an eel, can be stored on a reel. I myself am not alive, but carry what is needed for life.

I borrow light and bend it wrong, to stretch the short and widen long. I don’t reveal what wasn’t there, I simply make it easier to stare.