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It is not your enemy, yet we still beat it. What is it?
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Some say we are red, some say we are green. Some play us, some spray us. What are we?
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I repeat only the last word you say. The more I repeat, the softer I got. I cannot be seen but can be heard. What am I?
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I’m by nature solitary, scarred by spear and wounded by sword, weary of battle. I frequently see the face of war, and fight hateful enemies; yet I hold no hope of help being brought to me in the battle, before I’m eventually done to death. In the stronghold of the city sharp-edged swords, skilfully forged in the flame by smiths, bite deeply into me. I can but await a more fearsome encounter; it is not for me to discover in the city any of those doctors who heal grievous wounds with roots and herbs. The scars from sword wounds gape wider and wider; death blows are dealt to me by day and by night. What am I?
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If you were to put a coin into an empty bottle and then insert a cork into the neck, how could you remove the coin without taking out the cork or breaking the bottle?
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I have legs but seldom walk; I backbite many but never talk; I seek places that can hide me because those that feed me cannot abide me
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