I have ribs but no lungs. I have a door but no rooms. I am made of bars, but I serve no drinks. I can keep danger inside, or keep danger outside. Without a key, my shape defines your world. What am I?

No windows greet the morning sun, Yet many stories here are spun. Iron sings and torches sway, Few who enter wish to stay. What am I?

I spin without dizziness, day into night, Turning in silence, yet never in flight. Borders and countries are drawn on my skin, But wars never scar me. I cradle the deserts, the forests, the seas, The tallest of peaks and the deepest degrees. You’ll find every nation wrapped into my sphere, Explorers have traced me with fingers and eyes, Dreaming of lands under faraway skies. Students have turned me in curious delight, Chasing the sun from the left to the right. I’m round as a riddle with answers concealed, A map and a mystery perfectly sealed. Though I show the whole world, I’m smaller than thought, a miniature marvel that knowledge has wrought. What am I, keeper of land, sky, and sea, A world in your hands, yet not truly free?

My bottom is more often wet than it's dry, Use me, go fast, but don't expect me to fly. It's only water I like, and it's always been known, Your final clue is that I am a palindrome.

A couple, two of a kind, shoes, socks or scissors. A yellowish-green fruit with a big bottom. And the act of peeling that fruit with a knife.