Answer:
We are five little objects of an everyday sort, You will find us all in a tennis court.
I run around the city, but I never move.
Always wax, yet always wane: I melt, succumbed to the flame. Lighting darkness, with fate unblest, I soon devolve to shapeless mess.
Within, I clean all that is bad and is old. I make juice thatβs the color of gold. Should I die, a filter machine would you need assembled to replace me and beans I resemble.
What does man love more than life, fear more than death or mortal strife. What the poor have, the rich require, and what contented men desire. What the miser spends, and the spendthrift saves. And all men carry to their graves.
Which popular cheese is made backwards?