How can you accuse me, Of what it is, that you do best? It makes me boil with anger, Causing bellows from my chest. My toll of weight is held, in goals and fingers nonetheless. Either way you’ll want a spot. My handle held to pour or sweat.

Hammers, wrenches, screws, and more, travel with me from door to door. Though I repair no thing alone, without me, many jobs are postponed.

I was down on my luck, I was down on my knees, Then my blood trickled down from my hand to its leaves It offered me fortune, he who came from above That plant that I named after one that I loved

To your photos, I add a pop of fun, Through my fibers, water runs, When you speak without thinking, I have slipped. Rip me from a cigarette? Your lungs are unequipped.

I have a single tongue but I never speak. I hold doors tight when hinges grow weak. Lift me up or slide me clear, To open the way for those who are near.