The sidewalk's edge Isn't called a ledge It also isn't a chasm It's what you should do with your Enthusiasm.

Come little birds, stretch your wings Fly around and sit on things A small taste of freedom Although it's not real For you're still confined Tween my ribs of steel Guess what I am If you got to this stage But know that the answer isn't a cage

Round, oval, square, or any shape. I hold all sorts of goodies like candy, gifts, eggs or fruit. Woven, wooden, felt, plastic - I can be made of anything. Balls like to go through me as well.

I am not a plant, though gardens drown in me. I have no veins, yet I bleed the sky. I am countless, yet singularly blamed. I feast without a mouth, kill without a hand, and when I rule, oceans go silent. What am I?

Shirley Temple wears me on her head, Singapore slings me, and it sounds like Sundays aren't the same without me. What am I?