Stumps I make, The leftovers you take, I am man-made, Just a stick and a blade

I speak when struck, not when I breathe, A hollow heart with stretched-on skin. I keep the march, I call the dance, A thunder born beneath your hands. No mouth I have, yet beats are heard Name me by sound, not voice nor word.

If I fall, make a wish and blow- They say I’ll bring good luck, you know. A guardian of the human mind, Filtering what the eye might find.

Cities shrink beneath my skin, oceans curl and fold within. Though flat and still upon your lap, I unfurl the world from paper scrap

From a busy dining experience, to a quiet homemaker. This place provides a basic human need in a well-cooked meal.