I am spun before the wings take flight, a fragile cradle wrapped in white. Yet from those threads, so soft and fine, are woven garments fit to shine.

What do you call a toy spinning on a wannabe mountain?

I’m like a rattle for cattle Lots of people seem to want more, more, more.

If you jump off the Pont Neuf in Paris, you must be...

When fire fades, I often stay, a powder pale and soft as clay. Yet from my bed, so tales convey, a phoenix may be reborn one day.