A man walks into his home to realize that all his lamps were stolen.

I have a wide mouth but I never speak. I have a big belly but I have no feet. I pour out comfort chilled or hot, I'll hold your drinks but drink them not.

Removing my last, I'm four rooms in sync. Dropping off two, I listen, don't think. Right in between, I do the last line. And without the first, I'm where you reside. I predate the kitchen, with humans I've grown. And though I am ancient, still found in the home.

I host iron guests that cannot swim, Their bellies scarred, their futures dim. I drain the deep but keep the hull, Where rust and paint wage wars in full. I’m land and sea in measured blocks, A resting place that mends their shocks.

I fly away when you throw me, Then I turn around and come back to you. I’m not a bird, but I always return. What am I?