I make juice, but I do not make rhymes. People often Squeeze me.

Born where trunks bleed and hands turn black, I climb the throat and mend the crack. I sell your dreams, I sail, I sing - In every field, I’m everything. What am I?

I'm spiky and small and a bit red. Peel a few and you'll be fed.

I hang by the neck beside a throne, wear coats of white in tidy rows. I split with sighs along my bones, serve, then vanish where water goes. What am I?

I have cities, but no houses. I have mountains, but no trees. I have water, but no fish. What am I?