Powered by the swirling air, my arms spin slowly upon my face. Their motion makes my gut churn, And in turn, people use that to crush.

A pool of black, for writer or hack, To pour their imagination. Without a feather, to draw me fourth, I stay stoppered in stagnation.

When I'm moral, I'll guide you when all other laws are absent. When I'm tangible, I'll guide you when all other signs are absent.

By the shore, it whispers tales from faraway lands, a treasure of sand in a beach goer's hands.

Take a musical instrument that is the embodiment of creating calm and beautiful environments with its softly-plucked strings. Now take an over-the-top form of satire that mocks someone or something. Take these two things that make people smile and laugh and merge them together to naturally get me, a weapon for hunting whales.