I stand by the road, silent and bold, with colors and shapes to guide the fold. Though I can't speak, my message is clear: to keep you safe and steer you near.

When you're with me, I've always got that wet hairstyle. I glide across the floor, my movements clean and directed. After we're done the space is wet for awhile. And with a thorough wringing I am subjected.

I have three feet, but no arms and no legs. What am I?

A guardian of some renown, I perch like a spear. I sit beneath the crown, and strike any who draw near. I am a brethren with a spine, and may let you enter my hall. Against giants I hold the line, but not those who are small.

I’m stuck, like a sheet of glue. If loose, I must be wound. My ribbon transfers through. A sight or mix of sounds. Record what’s deemed by you. Now boxed up, where I’m found. Ironic is my fate, it’s true. I seal what keeps me bound.