I am a golden mountain, yet I have no rock, Born of the harvest, I am built for the stock. If you lose a tiny needle, you must search through me, But if you light a match, I turn to ashes instantly. What am I?

I hang on a neck but I’m not a tie, With every step, I testify. Clang and clatter through field and dell, A farmyard’s chime you know too well.

This is the last one. I don't have any more patience nor things to write. What am I?

A hot drink served in a cup. Golfers need me to hold the ball up.

I used to go under your armpit, under your tongue or where the sun doesn't shine. Nowadays I go into your ear. A much more comfortable design.