As you rise, my teeth tame the tumults upon your mind, while the queen of sweet stays asleep, her voice confined.

Red houses are red, White houses are white, But I'm not named after the color of my exterior. In fact, I don't have a color of my own.

I pierce the sky, yet have no wings, hold countless souls, yet feel no empathy, and offer views that dwarf the dreams below. What am I?

I'm formed by forceful stirring. Creamed by silent hand or machine whirring. Yellow, slippery, yet sticky, I hug many foods - I'm not picky. Unlike snowmen, many prefer me to melt, But too much of me might break your belt.

In puddle parades, these rubbery guardians march, keeping toes dry beneath the darkest clouds' tears.