I have four legs I give you rest But cannot walk For the weary, best On their last dregs

I curl like a golden moon, With flaky layers tucked in tune. Born for breakfast, light and sweet, With buttery folds from top to feet. Peel my layers, one by one, A crescent treat for everyone! What am I?

I’m filled with air, but I’m not a tire, I float up high, but I’m not a bird. Give me a string and watch me dance, Pop me and I’m gone in a burst.

I am born from wet grains on a summer beach, Or raised in heavy stone beyond a dragon's reach. I have a keep, a drawbridge, and a crown of square-cut stone, Yet I can crumble to the waves or stand for centuries alone.

A tree once gave me my beginning, but heat changed what I’d be. Now I stretch, I bend, I bounce, and snap right back with ease.