I hold your things and match your style, and follow you each passing mile.

A cozy dwelling, Your humble abode, I stay where I'm built, While you hit the road.

I stand alone, solid and still, One single piece, shaped by skill. Ancient or modern, tall or small, What am I, made from just one all?

I'm the end of a morning brew, yet a start for something new. I leave a dark stain, a bitter perfume. What am I, in my discarded tomb?

It puts it on its skin It puts it in the basket Or it gets the hose again