Weak people are sometimes called me, I scrape your soles and keep them clean, Always the first thing to welcome you home, I spend my whole day awaiting you at the door

Spelled forward, a clip. Backwards, is what sticks. Swap second and last, done too much makes you sick. Par ‘fore this is rooted, no woods clubs or chips. A chop for the strand, Or for men, the quick-fix.

I'm a steadfast guardian, though I never stray, My stony silence guards the blooms by day.

A Canadian place famed for a rush of gold. An old ad asked what you would do for one. A trove of records, rich with things once told.

What has four legs, eight legs, and a baton?