I'm not a downcat, Actually quite the reverse, And if you should guess me, At me you will curse. Two words together, a direction and hound, Ask what it means and to the punchline be bound.

I hum and whir with noble intent, until your patience has been spent. I’m full of paper, yet scream for more, then jam myself with page four.

I make brits and americans disagree, but I do not make them unhappy. People often like to eat either version of me.

Love me or not, to some I’m oddly crisp, tasting like herbs or a sad rubber tire from a dish. Twisted and bold, a nostalgic wish, but I’m more like the black sheep of the candy dish.

Most of me is dead but I'm not a mummy. I grow on your body but I'm not your tummy. People chew on me but I'm not yummy. I can bend but I'm not very gummy.