In the cooler, a delight so fine, Yellow, white, or blue, it ages with time. Paired with bread or fruit, it's a grand feast, A comfort for all, from west to east.

Close them and you won't see a thing.

I’m forged out of metal, yet somehow I sing, give me one little strike and I’ll start to ring.

Who to call when you need a hand?

I'm a pair of scissors doing what they're made to do, Or the permanent surgery that stops you from making new. I'm an obnoxious, rude person ruining your day, And a British bargain you'd gladly pay.