Under ancient arbor, a relic rests; a script of stones, silent sentinels of sagas sung. Whispering wisdom, woven in weathered whispers, it guards the groves of time, guiding the growing green.

I’m a real prick Stuck in your side Switch my middle to A I’m what rabbits do when caught in the light.

I'm a description of trees, When it gets cold I lose my leaves, I'm not evergreen, like those firs and pines, More like maples and willows, the more interesting kind

Can you feel the claws digging into your tongue? Oh wait you can't talk right now...

I move in deep cover, work in the dark. Espionage, or a beautiful mark?