I’m not a cat, nor a fox, nor a tree, Yet I fuss where the snippers roam free. I march in orange, I mutter, I warn, Of the greedy hands that leave forests forlorn. I speak for the silent, the leafy, the small, Though shorter than stout, I outshout them all. Who am I, this grumpy, mustachioed chap, That guards the green woods, then vanishes-zap?

Some say I'm needed to educate and useful for research. Some say I don't do anything useful, and call me a prison. Either way, I'm a place to observe the occupants and entertain the masses.

my name is a ballroom dance, with jazzy band usually behind it, if you follow the tempo, it goes from slow to quick, with a swingy trend. the first three refer to, a quick an sly animal, whose fur can by red like a blaze. the last four refer, to a horses nature, as it jogs via the Westerly name. which means the same as in the East. back to the first when you combine them, has its origin, back in the ragtimes of old.

I'm perhaps a prison for those who commit no crimes I'm similar to a circus but have no mimes Between are bars, one side spends life, the other spends time I'm not so joyous when you notice all the grime

I can solve the the most incredulous of crimes. And I’m known to weave the most intricate of patterns. Sometimes I bite, I won’t let go and finally need cutting off.