Your life in yours and mine in mine. Upon you sit, a shift in spine. Part for the mints. Part for borrowed lines. Forgot at home, virtual shines.

I'm Moby Dic's worst enemy, not Ishmael, but sinister indeed. From the bow, I enter thee, piercing deep, you'll come to me.

The British have bad ones, The old use fake, The young have none, You need these if you want to eat a steak! What am I?

Behold the humble hut of yore, where beasts dost bide from tempest's roar. A wooden womb for woolly kin, beneath its roof, calm doth begin.

I can accentuate your expressions, I can mend two broken hearts, I can hide a confession if you don't know where to start.