I wait in a toolbox until I am needed Then swing through the air with a purpose completed I have a head but no eyes to see And a handle that lets you control me I can build things without making a plan I can fix what is broken with the help of a hand I drive nails deep where they need to be And sometimes I break what should not be

I hold the beach beers, I hold the crooks, and yes, I am more hip than you.

I go click-click in your hand, I buzz in the barber's shop, I'm not a ship, not a film, But hair and nails, I trim.

I sizzle and pop inside the pan, then curl and crisp as brown as I can.

I hold your finest feasts and light meals, Yet I never take a single bite myself. Spin me around, and I shift beneath your meal, On the Earth's fiery crust, I am molten rock by another name.