I could make butter, money, or life, Or be locked away if I cause too much strife Though the plainest form grows on a tree, There are many meanings of me

A league of jagged blades, Though no steel lines their edges, Fine or frayed, domestic glade, Twixt links of chain or hedges

I’m sounded as a warning to others around. Before battle, while driving, by bikes on the ground. A French one of me makes beautiful tones. Some animals use me to defend their homes.

I describe a parked car and a heavy stone wall, I’m a state of standing still, not moving at all. But change just one letter an A to an E And suddenly, I’m the paper you use to write me.

In lands of old, I stand so tall, a silent sentinel of stone. A storyteller in the square, pointing ever to the sky, yet never touching it.