The process starts with a wheel spinning fast, Onto it, a wet blobby lump is cast. As fingertips shape it and sharp edges loom, Without me, it never escapes muddy doom.

A silly face, Way up high, Hard to crack, But sweet inside.

I wear a suit of gold and red, With brilliant thoughts inside my head. I snapped my fingers, saved the day, And turned the darkest threat away.

If yellow, a mean fellow If leather, lasts forever If it's hot, you'd better not If on book, it's a good look

Some are built of stone In ancient and desert lands Others are built on a lie grown Promising riches that slip through hands