A gift wears me like a crown on its head, spilling into curls of blue, gold, or red.

My window shows a storm inside, My plate goes round and round, I count down to zero like a rocket, But I never leave the ground. What am I?

Put a group that plays music together and how old you are, and it's something you plaster on your boo-boo.

Why is it that the amusement park ride operators never yell ‘Scream if you want to go faster!’ on this fairground attraction?

Peter wears me as a last name and never grows up; eggs fry in me.