It grows in the dark and shine in the light; The paler it is, the more it is liked; Its maker never gets paid, but never goes on strike. What is it?
In spring I look gay, Covered in a green array, The warmer it gets the more clothing I wear, As the cold grows, I throw away my clothes.
What am I?
It has five wheels, though often think four, You cannot use it without that one more, You can put things in it, you can strap things on top, You can’t find it in the market, but you can still go shop. What is it?
