Thousands of little bristles, neatly lined up. Twice a day, they do their job. Although they are many, singular is their name. Providing minty freshness is their game.

Winged death takes flight, A feathered end, so precise, Bulls eye pierced and still.

Fill me with air or water I'm fun with both, but the fun pops when I break.

A trusty tray, a humming friend on my lap, where letters play. It lights up the night, without a single nap, keeping me warm with its gentle tap-tap.

Nose to stone, Wearing smooth, Casting sparks, Dirty moves?