You say just one? That’s cute, good try, but once I crunch, your hand will fly. You grab another, to dip with glee, a sudden split, and now there’s two sad bits of me.

A growing form of vegetation, a space for manufactured pies; the act of nurturing a seed, a clever, undercover spy.

I'm bald and fat and shed greases. I've proclivities interspecies. I give gratitude, with a threesome most lewd, In front of your nephews and nieces.

I make words and lines, but I am not made of graphite. You might see me in Wells.

I have a face, though no eyes, mouth or nose In constant motion, numbers always shown