Where muddy waters trap the bold, A maze of muck and tales untold. A sticky mess, where hope goes to die, Also a friend of the Family Guy.

With ink as black as night It has a pen But does not write.

When thunder speaks, I lose my nerve, I blink and stutter, as if unsure. Not out, not on, a pulse obscure, I warn you that your electricity may not endure.

I follow the sun when it slips from sight, I'm gloomy, obscure and not very bright, I’m feared by some, yet needed for rest, Name me, at hiding things I'm the best.

A favorite material for gear in the cold, wash me once, and I look quite old. Described as comfy, cozy, and relatively cheap, I’m shorn from the backs of fluffy sheep.