To Pratchett I'm invisible. They say I don't echo. I'm famous for down. I'm not a gecko.

A colour bright, a citrusy sphere, my rhyming debate often returns each year.

It used to roam land, towering then. To be guilty of it, is a mortal sin. In the age of ice, a mammoth’s friend. Hung to sleep. Tri-tipped? Depends.

Dogs can’t operate MRI machines, but . . .

I guard the gates to my master's domain, All three of my heads have to share my one name, Dead in, living out is the duty I keep, Unless you have honey cake to put me to sleep