Answer:
Walk on the living, they don't even mumble. Walk on the dead, they mutter and grumble.
What weaves webs as they grow?
Hold these between your knees if you want to set a Cuban beat.
I have legs but walk not, a strong back but work not. Two good arms but reach not. A seat but sit and tarry not.
A thousand colored folds stretch toward the sky. Atop a tender strand, rising from the land, until killed by maiden's hand. Perhaps a token of love, perhaps to say goodbye.
This food is a tortilla filled with cheese and sometimes chicken before being heated or cooked.