Its bells don't ring; they shine red, green, and yellow Tiny black seeds that season your meal, Or thin, red, or green when you need some heat

From regal crowns, I proudly sprout, In forest halls, where creatures rout. A branching peak on nature's throne, Majestic horns of bone alone.

A sea of red, when all is dead, From broken ground I rise. A cure for pain, a sweet sedative strain, Or cloud your mind and blur your eyes.

I’m something you ask for before you enter, A polite little something so no one’s offended. You wait for a yes before carrying on.. But I’m orange, I’m sweet, and I grow on a farm. What am I?

In summer's sway, with a rind so thick, inside lies the sun's juicy trick. Green or yellow, sweet and round, a picnic's joy can be found.