Top like a bowl, bottom like a straw, I never break any pour law, I take it big, give it small, I’m needed by one and all.

A mark bore upon the flesh, a pink reminder while it's fresh. Over time it can conceal, leaving a spot where you can't feel.

Chickens are put in small cages. Electricity is what it embraces, Lost and found in Baghdad for ages. It's the crime of beating up faces. A street in San Fran Metallica praises.

A thing in the middle of the face: If it's big, one may want to erase A part of it. But be careful, Don't be like Jackson And leave but a trace!

In the days of yore, when tales were spun, a carved relic held secrets under the sun. Whispered wisdom in ancient tone, a saga etched in solid stone.