Answer:
Gold in a leather bag, swinging on a tree, money after honey in its time. Ills of a scurvy crew cured by the sea, reason in its season but no rhyme.
What can burn the eyes, sting the mouth, yet be consumed and thought delicious?
The leaves are on the fruit, the fruit is on the leaves. What is it?
What is eaten by man, served among many, grown by many, and white as snow?
This is a pancake restaurantI am a kangaroo
I run through hills. I veer around mountains. I leap over rivers. And crawl through the forests. Step out your door to find me.