I'm not the sort that's eaten, I'm not the sort you bake,
Don't put me in an oven; I don't taste that great,
But when applied correctly, around me you will find,
Problems are so simple when my digits come to mind.
What has a coat? Hugs you not in sympathy?
Whose smile you'd rather not see?
Whose stance is a terrible thing to see?
Who is it that brave men run away from?
Whose fingers are clawed?
Whose sleep lasts for months?
And who's company we shunt?
Deep, deep, do they go.
Spreading out as they go.
Never needing any air.
They are sometimes as fine as hair.
Lovely and round, I shine with pale light,
Grown in the darkness, a lady's delight.
Select a pack of riddles and try to solve it in an interesting way.
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