My history is long in telling,
Though my origins are unknown.
I watch the tender earth most carefully,
Clothed in discards long disowned.
I guard against the raucous poachers,
Praying for a gust of wind that will animate my lifeless form.
The autumn winds will signal the completion of my job.
Maybe if I had a brain I’d choose to move south for the winter.
A famous racing driver had a terrible accident at Daytona which left him in the hospital for months. However, he surprisingly never once considered giving up racing.
Created I was, in 1841,
By someone with the name of an evil one,
He was a Belgian, living in Paris,
This man had to be very zealous.
Fourteen of me, this young man made,
Some above A, but not quite B,
With some higher than D, but lower than E,
And some that are C, and three halves above D,
That’s why my popularity’s so easy to see.
Golden with lacquer, I usually am,
I sometimes am used to honor Uncle Sam,
Patented I was in 1846,
I’m the one who gives some their kicks,
I’m shaped like a J – with a hook on the end,
So, can you tell what I am?