My many teeth are dull and neat, yet through soft strands they’re quick to sweep. Or with great care I search each place, until what’s lost I finally trace.

What is blue and smells like red paint??

My feathers mirror moonless skies, yet clever thoughts fill watchful eyes. I speak in calls and borrowed sound, wherever forest paths are found.

Zombies would probably like the look of these nuts

I make your cheeks burn, though no fire is near. A silent recoil, a visceral fear. A cultural faux pas, held ever so dear.