I run over fields and woods all day. Under the bed at night I sit, never alone. My tongue hangs out, up and to the rear, waiting to be filled in the morning. What am I?
Only one color, but not one size.
Stuck at the bottom, yet I easily fly.
Present in sun, but not in rain.
Doing no harm, and feeling no pain.
What Am I?
The cost of making only the maker knows,
Valueless if bought, but sometimes traded.
A poor man may give one as easily as a king.
When one is broken pain and deceit are assured.