The kind from Brussels are not the most favourite on the planet, although some say that roasted they're not half bad.

I stand outside in the cold, hands and feet bound, It's dark, but soon the Sun will rise, a cue for a jarring sound, Five men stand before me, rifles in hand, aimed at their target in orange attire, As soon as Day begins, the commander will shout! Ready! Aim! ----!

I lend you my handle, to give you your food. If you douse me with water, I'll return the mood. In my face, you are small, on my back you are tall. My head has no eye, so I ask: What am I?

I am what you hear when you strike the palms of one's hands together repeatedly. I am used as an applaud.

I have a point, but cannot feel. I leave a trail, but never heal. I tell tales without a sound. What am I?