The President was Silent Cal, Not long ago, a century, Who wasted not and wanted not, a puritan from birth was he. Thus when his son asked for me, the father told him to make do. The son paid him a visit soon, and rubbed his toe against his shoe In a tennis game, his blister burst, and the infection slew. The father in depression slid, and soon so did the whole country. Was it, in part, for want of me?

Chic to seek, Thrifty gold, Treasured finds, Things of old

Cinderella’s fairy godmother turned a pumpkin into this, Drawn by horse to take her to the ball.

A Ridley Scott dream of Ripley and her crew. You can scream, but no one can hear you.

A slender stick of ancient lore, channeling power with a flick, it casts spells with a flourish, a wizard's trusty trick.