I am two words. My first comes from the butcher’s block, though I never see a butcher’s shop. Cut into me and my flesh is as red as blood, yet no blood is spilled. What am I?

In pockets, I jingle with glee, Dancing when spent, can't you see? I make wishes soar, And dreams want for more. I'm what grows on the elusive tree.

We all have some. If you put some inside a barrel, it becomes easier to carry. What am I?

What has six faces but wears no makeup and has twenty one eyes but can’t see

I march to my own beat but have no feet, I pump iron but have no arms, if I die the world around me dies... what am I ?