Worn by the rich elite, half a pair of glasses, singular lens symbol of wealth.

A common tool for gardeners and fire fighters. I look like a snake spitting water.

Turn my left wrist, I spit hot. Turn my right wrist, I spit cold. My head rests on a bent neck; Chrome has me in a chokehold.

Break me once and some would say, bad fortune follows on its way. Yet whole, I quietly borrow light to show your world reversed in sight.

I hold a thousand voices, Yet all of me is still. I travel through the ages, Without moving at will.