I’m a tool, a toy, a mechanical device. I’m sometimes used only once or twice. My uses are plenty, many and more. I collect them and show them, I’m told I’m a bore. Remembering their names is quite the chore.

The peak of a mountain, the hight of a wave, top of of a rooster's head. I am used as an ornament, to adorn a soldier's helmet, often colored in red.

The final stage before it’s dark Some older ones still barely glow But touch me and I’ll leave my mark A painful welt with smudge bestowed

A lovely figure made of glass and sand measures time as it slips away.

In the kitchen's dance, I twirl with grace, turning liquid into airy lace. My metal fingers spin and play, blending smoothly in a rhythmic ballet.