I was an icon in the heyday of Microsoft word whenever you needed help. But often people did not like me. Now I am relegated to holding documents and being bent out of shape to clean hard to reach places.

A symbol, but started between the teeth. On the rude bird, it's a protective sheath.

The Machine Test: Prove you are breathing by staring at a screen. I hunt for the robots, though I am a machine. What am I?

Folded wisdom in your glove box, guiding hands as they roam, paths drawn in ink, a paper oracle of roads.

I hold things together without a knot or glue, A tiny metal grip that quietly does what I do. I pinch what is loose and keep it in place, Then vanish in pockets without leaving a trace. I can bind up your papers or secure up your bag, I am simple and small, yet helpful each day. I am found in many rooms and in many a pack, Turning disorder into something that stays neatly stacked. I can snap, I can clamp, I can close, I can keep, I am quiet and strong while I do all I climate. What am I, useful and plain in my role, A little helper that gathers the whole so it holds?