A built in tornado shelter, this dank concrete bunker lies silently below. Prone to flooding if your pipes burst though!

I’m the cook’s little shield, tied snugly in place, often dusted with flour from chest to waist.

I am the frozen lake, and the ghosting of a heart, The violent shadow squad that tears a life apart. The fading arctic clock, the floor where skaters glide, And the flashing diamond chains where hip-hop stars take pride. What am I?

I’m soft in the middle, with lines running through, and catch all the things that are handed to you.

I am the old soul muttering from the back row. My voice wears boots and occasionally trips over them. Give me a reed and I will grumble beautifully. When the orchestra gets serious, I bring the eyebrows.