I am small enough to hold in your palm, Yet I wear a sweet crown of spun cloud. I dress in a pleated paper skirt, baked to delight a gathering crowd.

Silent chatter on glowing screens, a stream of whispers without a voice, your fingers are usually what creates me however I am also what the sender sees

I take what you send me And give it back. Sometimes I colour, Sometimes I lack.

I’m your eye’s tiny shield against the dust, until one falls in and ruins your trust.

I'm juice, with pectin, sugar too With Jif or Skippy, treat for you