My ribs are carved from forest bone, my voice from equines tail. I wail when bows run through my hair, and hush when fingers fail.

I sit on a throne with a crown on my head, or I stay on your desk with your pencils instead.

I’m a twisty, turny puzzle With lots of walls in sight. You try to find your way through me, But I keep turning left and right. What am I?

If you use me in moderation, you’ll feel fine; if you use me every day, I’ll do you harm and leave you with lasting effects.

my golden oil can be considered a sacrifice in a volcano, cultivated by the gods of olympus. What am I?