A blending of people, typically celebratory. Another version blends your carrots and celery.

I boast of strength I cannot keep, my promises are but paper-deep. One gentle pull, one careless sway, and all my pieces break away.

I seldom seem like very much, until there’s twelve of me.

When you kick the bucket, you’ll arrive at some pearly ones and have to explain to St. Peter why you should be allowed to enter heaven. Sometimes this is also the beginning of a joke.

I rest where you slump after day’s long campaign, A soft little kingdom with no need for reign. I’m stitched into squares or am round as the moon, A cloud for your chair and a nap-helper soon. I hush all the creaks with my feathery grace, And politely improve every sofa and space. I’m not a pillow, though close we may seem, I’m the comfy companion of lounge-time and dream. I catch all your sighs like a sponge in the rain, I soften the pressure, I lessen the strain. When tossed on the floor, I still keep my cheer, For I’m loved by the tired and the leisurely here. I may sit on a bench or on wicker outside, I’m plump when I’m new, and I droop if I’m old, So what am I, friend, with my cozy parade, The plush little helper that sofas have made?