The process starts with a wheel spinning fast, Onto it, a wet blobby lump is cast. As fingertips shape it and sharp edges loom, Without me, it never escapes muddy doom.

What you call someone small or something from the sea that's delicious to eat

I may command a marching line, or speak in terms not broadly defined. In war I rank, in talk I blur, the same one word can both confer.

I wear a coat of feathers light, I greet the dawn before the sun, I’m dinner, joke, and farmyard sight, and sometimes asked why I must run.

What is something you can catch but never throw?