under the covers i'll spin a yarn stories of lovers, queens, beggars, and brawn you'll turn with my twists til your eyes beg for sleep but your ears will be useless; i don't make a peep.

With pointed fangs, I sit in wait, With piercing force, I dole out fate, Over bloodless victims proclaiming its might, Eternally joining in a single bite. What am I?

Often I’m debated, determined a fallacy or legacy. Some find me essential. Some find me obtuse and ridiculous at times. Everyone fawns over me for my beauty for I am made by the hand.

Literally noncorporeal, this may haunt you. Some do not believe this exists in one sense, but in another meaning of the word, everyone may have one.

Two words put together make a twofold lie One is a color, but that color is not mine The other a structure of wood or stone But not in my case, I would make a poor home