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Hard to catch, easy to hold. Can't be seen, unless it's cold
In Paris but not in France, the thinnest of its siblings.
What flares up and does a lot of good, and when it dies is just a piece of wood?
It holds no blessings in disguise. Its rhymes are aimed at your demise, it's cast only to ruin, Whatever you are doin'.
From house to house I go, sometimes narrow, sometimes wide. And whether there’s rain or snow I always stay outside. What am I?
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