I once stood tall beneath the sun, Now rivers carry where I run. The waves have carved me, smooth and pale, I wander freely without a sail. No roots remain to hold me down, I wash ashore from town to town.

I sit on a deer’s head, I’m not going to fall, I look like a tree, but I’m not one at all. I’m bumpy and branched, I grow every year What am I, riding on top of a deer?

I meant I wanted you to have a look at something, not that you could have one of my birds!

Scarab, rhino, and horned, No matter my type, I look jewel-adorned. June bugs and ladies, Dung and all of its mateys Are all forms of myself Do you know what I am? Can you figure it out yourself?

An onion is basically one; so is the glass pear that lights up bright ideas.