A surface of glistening waves is what I'm made of, sometimes to large to see the far end. Yet an ocean or sea I am not. Naturally I am filled, tho all round the year humans find a way to have fun with me.

Having plenty can make you feel grand, But pulling it in public is seldom well-planned. It bends sometimes, yet stands erect, Always capped with a head, you'd expect. It gives you nerve, keeps you steady and fine- Name it carefully: what is mine?

I have no voice, yet I’m full of names. I never move, yet traffic flows on me. I can be long or short, rich or poor, Homes face me, footsteps mark me, and cities are built upon me. What am I?

I make the guard stand in his place, Spur the courier to run his race, The backbone of your backyard’s border, I denote what’s later in the order.

With ink as black as night It has a pen But does not write.