I’m old but not a grandpa, I sit behind clear glass. People point and whisper, as they slowly walk past.

Polo, Chariot, and Coach render me well. And I often prance around in a Carousel.

Light and flaky, please just bake me, till golden brown, then go to town.

I cover windows to dim the day, or live where sight has gone away. I close things out or lack the view, I’m one word that makes these meanings true.

Shining, sturdy, sometimes brave; What I deal is byword for the grave.