We are little brethren twain, arbiters of loss and gain; man to our counters run, some are made, and some undone; but men find it, to their cost, few are made, but numbers lost; though we play them tricks for ever, yet they always hope our favor.
A single syllable do I claim,
black was my most famous name;
Fetal to mortals here below,
thousands have I slain in a single blow.
It carries paper of the most important sort
but also plastic, I'm glad to report.
What is it?
Select a pack of riddles and try to solve it in an interesting way.
This riddle appears in the following downloadable PDF files: