How it warms the heart, with flourishes that play their part. It dresses walls like Sunday best, and makes a house a cozy nest.

The wall's oracle, it whispers the rhythm of days, months, and years, marking time's silent march with squares and numerals.

My ribs are carved from forest bone, my voice from equines tail. I wail when bows run through my hair, and hush when fingers fail.

A crown of points upon a head Sometimes cut off after a shot of lead Reindeer, stag, or moose, Let the arrows loose To claim the crown for your roost.

I sit on a throne with a crown on my head, or I stay on your desk with your pencils instead.