Made for surgery, but brought in now, I’d put money on a lawsuit. In the right hands, I make trees quiver, enough to yell timber and move out the way.

On the road, it's bad. On a sandwich, it's tasty. On a stage, it rocks out. On a court, it's a stuff. What is it?

Smiling sound? Melting gold? Stinky stuff, Sometimes with mold.

A bad golfer makes these long and deep. A courteous golfer replaces theirs without a peep. On the green they are a menace. Your foot may leave one in lawn tennis. Spell it wrong and you’ve got Sanskrit for heavenly.

Dust-born words upon the wall, gone again at cleaning’s call.