In fields of brass, I stand proud, shaping sounds that travel loud. On beast or band, guide or guard, my call echoes near and far.

Some are an eternal thing Some are found on old hot-rods Or frenzied in Elden Ring Or lit to start the Olympics, for Greek Gods

I sing of wars and journeys long, Of heroes bold and ancient song. A poet’s name, both old and wise, Yet also found where donuts rise.

I run long and thin but within the walls, I thrive and scale without falls.

A place to read, A place to recline, No rest for your arms, But one for your behind. What am I?