Answer:
I flow from the Homerβs mouth when he sees doughnuts.
Wind and cord combine, buzzing in the box. In all this we find, though to some the use is lost. What am I?
I am enjoyed with a pot and some pointy sticks.
I have leaves on my fruit my fruit is on my leaves.
I cannot be burned in fire or drowned in water
What is always coming but never arrives?