They say I’m shady, that’s not wrong, I’ve held my ground my whole life long. I’ll leave again, but never go, Ask my rings, they’ll let you know.

What goes blonde, to fluffy white, to bald in a season?

The quick whisper of scissors, a gentle break in the thread, this sound marks a new beginning or a sudden end.

What’s sweet and dry, or oversoaked, but furrowed either way?

I’m an ace in the garden Though, I’m shaped like a leaf.