A thin highway that keeps no guest, Where wandering streams briefly flow. Though empty, I disturb their rest And guide them upward as they go. What am I?

Gee, it’s a type of butter. Could you clarify that for me?

The first four can be a nap The last four can be a space Together, a place for crap Tasteless, sure, but there's the place

It's been a long day Now I must rest Have a good night Time to get dressed

Holding what’s needed, to battle the seize. First three goes in amber, cycling darkens to ease. Last three held in hand, pop the tab, liquid frees. A man of tin’s tool, gives his joints what they need.