Why shouldn’t you write with a broken pen? It’s . . .

The cattle moo, the sheep all bleat, beneath my roof they rest and sleep. Filled with hay from floor to beam, I keep them safe through snow and sleet.

I'm a fragile sphere, a transient sheen, often found when trying to get clean.

I might be filled with tea or joe, or be the face you always show.

On a court I help the ball take flight, Yet elsewhere I may disturb the night. One version earns applause and praise, the other earns a noise complaint.