For those below, their years Are carved onto my skin I stand hardened with my peers In a field of pain and chagrin

Despite the way my name is spoken, Thanks to me things won't be broken, With my comrades standing tall, We may trip but never fall.

I am known for cleaning, but I do not clean myself. You might find lead on me.

Three white faces are named from me. Two skeletons and a mystery. I'm in word, writer, and docs galore. I've scripts and serifs and so much more. I'm art that brings life to your words, so choose me well or look absurd.

You look upon my face and hands. I replace old falling sands. Sometimes I make a little sound. Your home is guarded by my hound. I hang or stand upon my feet. And on your wrist, I'm pretty neat.