He stands beside the road. In a purple cap at tattered green cloak. Those who touch him, curse him.
Without a bridle, or a saddle, across a thing I ride a-straddle. And those I ride, by help of me, though almost blind, are made to see.
What holds names and memories which are not its own?
Thirty men and ladies two, gathered for a festive do; Dressed quite formal, black and white; soon movement turned to nasty fight.
What is never used unless it's in a tight place?
Break it and it gets better, immediately set and harder to break again.