I can be found on the dessert just lounging around with pricky body waiting for you wave back and say Hi.

Add a Y, it’s a Tribe Called Quest song. Change my first letter to S, it’s the leftovers after a fire. Unchanged, my plural is made for walking.

A state of being, a part of a coat, covering over a duct. The front of a car, a villainous thug, Cloth kidnappers use to abduct.

Lovely location of learning, lined with leather-bound legacies, where whispers of wisdom are woven into the world's wonders.

Add a letter to my end, would you? I belong to the lineage of a mister; Donald is his name, childish his moniker. He does not reign, no, he does not rule, But he uses lyrics like a tool. Once you know, remove the last; your hand I cover.