Answer:
It is destruction made out of thin air, You hear it howl and give a prayer, Through barns and houses it will tear. It is a deadly funnel, Of violent and twisting air.
Not a burden for its weight and daily carried out, He who takes it wishes it had never come about
Two little holes in the side of a hill. Just as you come to the cherry-red mill.
What has a head, a tail, is brown, and has no legs?
Reaching stiffly for the sky, I bare my fingers when its cold. In warmth I wear an emerald glove and in between I dress in gold.
They are many and one, they wave and they drum, Used to cover a state, they go with you everywhere.