I have no sharp corners, no start and no end, yet I can make a promise or announce a calling friend.

I’m a painting on a wall, Made on wet plaster so I won’t fall. In old churches I’m the star of the show, What kind of painting am I? Do you know?

Stretch, fold, and hold. Yielding pose after pose. Good on the muscles, lessening the strain. Grounded I stay, helping you retain your frame.

Without these we would be lumps of flesh, squirming about it would be a hot mess. Once dried and bleached these would make fine wind chimes, though a bit macabre, but hey, that's fine!

A solid or a liquid but my mission still remains To spread around and grab the filth, then drag it down the drain