A dagger thrust at my own heart, dictates the way I'm swayed. Left I stand, and right I yield, to the twisting of the blade.
At the sound of me, one may dream or stamp their feet, At the sound of me, one may laugh or sometimes weep.
You throw away the outside and cook the inside. Then you eat the outside and throw away the inside. What did you eat?
Always wax, yet always wane: I melt, succumbed to the flame. Lighting darkness, with fate unblest, I soon devolve to shapeless mess.
I am always hungry, I must always be fed. The finger I lick will soon turn red.
Poor people have it. Rich people need it. If you eat it you die. What is it?