Head or tail, side to side, I'm here for cleaning, going inside, I'm either the first or last in queue, I may hit the drums, a warning for you

On a green field, colors are cast, Fifteen numbers but eight is last, One by one, they vanish below, White remains, end of the show

You may spot me on a movie screen, Or hear me loud in a concert scene, Foiled by what folds in hand, You'd best avoid where I land

I’m pulled through the air, yet never complete, or scribbled down quick, but never elite. I’m half-formed and eager, yet lacking a name, waiting for your call before the real game.

A sliver of rebellion, thin and sly, Born from force but never tied. It stows away with silent grace, And festers in its borrowed place.