Answer:
Often wandering the streets, this group of people cannot afford to be choosers.
What is born on the ground but floats to the sky, to be returned back again from the clouds up high?
It flows out of the soil, It burns you if it boils, And holds us in its coils, More valuable than gold, As black as it is old.
The eight of us go forth not back to protect our king from a foe's attack. What are we?
What gets broken without being hold?
What do you purposefully put lots of in and on your body, but run away from when you encounter it outside?