We stop kings in their trotting tracks, We have armor on our very tall backs. Build us a path with shrubs in a pair, Then with a herring, chop the tree over there. Antlers we dawn on our helmets so mighty, But if we hear IT, we get awfully flighty.

I shape the shores and wash your clothes. Please do not use me to wash your toes.

I am a toasted, sunset-hued polygon of brine and dairy. My hollow heart is defined by the very steel that birthed it.

Use me improperly and there could be trouble, use me properly to rid oneself of stubble.

What slips, laps and rolls, yet is stuck to the same spot for its lifetime?