The British have bad ones, The old use fake, The young have none, You need these if you want to eat a steak! What am I?

Behold the humble hut of yore, where beasts dost bide from tempest's roar. A wooden womb for woolly kin, beneath its roof, calm doth begin.

I can accentuate your expressions, I can mend two broken hearts, I can hide a confession if you don't know where to start.

I tell time, but I'm not a clock. I keep watch, but not on your wrist. I drink the light to find the hour, but I go blind when the clouds are out.

I’m long and skinny, I twist and I bend, People walk on me from end to end. I’m not a road for cars that zoom fast, I’m where your feet go, first to last. What am I?