I poke and I bind; to yoke is my chore. You'll find me with ease in an office supply store.

A strategic move to guard the king, protected by his tower; A home surrounded by a ring of stone, a seat of power. The first may have a checkered floor, the second overlooks the poor.

Green whisperer in the crisper, a crunchy symphony in a stalk. It flavors soups and stuffings, and serves as a place where ant rest instead of walk.

Encased in history a long, long time ago, I am the ancestors of modern day warfare. I pierce the air, hard as stone, finishing one off with a final blow. One hand can guide my way, but once you wish, I won’t delay.

I resemble the sound of thunder, but I am not a explosion. People describe me as an instrument.