This king is the pride of his peers on the safari

My plants, they are mostly shrubs, Woodless, no roots can grow deep. A certain line I exist above, With soil trapped in frigid sleep. My children three they are, and two are opposites too. The third sounds like where we got the words 'yodelayheehoo!'

A humble echo of wealth, dancing with rust over time; essential in a pantry, yet hidden beneath layers. Its song is a light clink, partnering with a can’s soft whisper.

I tap on doors to ask politely, I thump on wood to chase bad luck away. Step into the ring and meet me once more, I might send you dreaming on the mat.

A quiet guardian by the door, welcoming feet with a cozy embrace. Often found lying flat, yet stands firm against muddy intruders.