I starve at banquets I did not cook, grow fat on victories I never earned. I measure myself only with other lives, and the closer I stand to joy, the further it moves away. What am I?

The end of my name rings of the royal, But where I’m hung up could make your skin boil! I am stuffed with delights by the dozen Or by two stinky twins, and their ten wriggly cousins.

My last four are a staple crop, Thats also known as maize, If you'd kept me away from the squirrel, We might have stayed in the ice age, My first is a simple vowel, That is not found in oil, south, or tie, I grow into a strong tree, What am I?

I have feet but no legs, and a back but no spine. I am a wooden path that leads nowhere, floating where the salt meets the pine. I welcome the wanderer back from the foam, Providing a tether, a gateway to home.

Where logs line up to meet their fate, Kissing a blade on their very first date. Turning lumber to planks without much fuss, Enjoy the result, but pardon our dust.