I feast with no hunger, stuffed yet still I crave. I turn pleasure into excess and appetite into a grave. One of seven, I sin by the plate. Name me.

Bumblebees right by the sea? You've got that right! I'm a tree!

Though I'm made to grab and carry, I would make an awful porter. Like a klutz, I just keep dropping things even though you keep tipping quarters.

My bones, Iron. My knowledge, unbound. Flesh of metal, beep boop, my sound. But one questiom bothers me deep. Do I dream of electric sheep?

I hold up treasures and trash alike, photos, art, even last night’s menu, but only if the surface agrees with me. Some travelers collect me as proof they were there. A conniving cartoon coyote has used me to try to catch a famously fast bird who never stops running.