A desk by name, I own your days, Waste at my core, a hidden sin, Yet racy end deceives your gaze, It grinds your days to paper thin.

Panic ensues when I go piping It can also ensue when I catch on fire. The first may be my goat legs and horns The second may be your poor cooking skills

What do you call a pub that’s famous for its murders?

My first is what cars do when they fast and furiously race through corners. My second is preceded by fire, cedar or cherry. Combined we form a thing that aimlessly floats by.

I wait at your door but never leave. Everyone steps on me, yet I’m not offended. I catch dirt but never complain.