I am the verb the garden depends on. A ritual repeated, never done. I am not the liquid, but the act itself. Put me before can and I name the tool I use.

I am not a plant, though gardens drown in me. I have no veins, yet I bleed the sky. I am countless, yet singularly blamed. I feast without a mouth, kill without a hand, and when I rule, oceans go silent. What am I?

I protect you from bugs! Results may vary. Side effects may include: greasy skin, bitterness on the tongue, itchy bites and disappointment.

Common in ladies, almost never in males, distinct inkblot spots, patchwork, head to coat-tails. Internationally lucky and beloved by lots, Don't call creature's name, But the paint-job of blots!

I am both worn by a tree, and a symbol of royalty. Even a coin can describe me. What am I?