Piercing in tone, More Callas than Bocelli, Your throat holds your song, Mine seethes in my belly

Silky, still, sublime; Artwork abandoned, alone, Covering corners.

Remove my first and last, and you have a poetic, rhythmic style of music. Mash my body, collect my blood, put it in a barrel, and let it age. Colors aplenty, sizes too; some like me dried, but drinking is more fun.

You can attend me, or have me if you play with me. Most dogs agree.

Five nails go into me, they all remain seen. I can also be a wood. The scent is fresh and clean. My name starts grainy: coarse, rough, getting everywhere. Without my straps, I'd be a lone sole. Your feet would be left bare.