I survey messages over the sea I contain spirits or water or pee I may be a weapon like a grenade Hold me and I hold your gatorade

Cutting through the air, flight just right, bound for the center of a bovine's sight.

My first five categorically mean teensy-tinsy small My last four, gesture welcoming, what breaks with crash and sprawls But really I am named for what I make in metal walls

It serves to catch meat when it's placed wisely. Out of the butt, strong, sticky, spun precisely. It was an arachnid's work; it sure appears to be. BUT In the corner it belongs, structureless, next to the mold. Charlotte is gone, now it's dusty, abandoned and old. Found when someone runs a household wearing a blindfold.

I wrap you up when you are wet, then dry your hair without a fret.