I sound like a dessert or bodily waste depending on how you pronounce me. I am important in geometry. I have a day named in my honor. I have a very famous specific set of numbers.

I’m spiky and proud, a fruit with a flair, but people smell me and dive for fresh air. I taste like dessert, but reek like a crime, a feast or a fart, who’s to say?

I make pools, but I do not make deep ends. People often jump in me.

I have a to-do list longer than a scroll, yet somehow doing nearly anything else is my only goal. I swear I’ll start, maybe tonight, or after one more snack, am I right?

Blue and white, a once great tome. Where in years passed the you would roam. Now, a cold and hollow shell where bot, ads and boomers dwell.