Historians rarely keep my form, Though scholars know my lines. For I am written without ink, In valleys, peaks, and signs. What am I?

I rise in halls where revelers convene, A vessel shaped for wine or sacred rite. I hold the drink that keeps your conscience clean, What ancient cup are you that meets the light?

Shocking when live, Hot I start cars, Chaoticly broken when I go hay. A trap when I'm trip. Snag when I'm barbed. Stressful when down to me you'd say.

I hold you close but never keep, each night I cradle you for sleep. I bear your weight without a sound, a quiet landscape, soft and bound. I sag with years, with nights of press, name the servant of your rest.

A song of wistful yearning by Janis Joplin. Change the space to a hyphen and you get German engineering. Start with yourself, then a third ranked cola. Next a British songwriter, followed by a way of making one many. Now that long bar at the bottom of your keyboard. Finish with a movie with a theme song by Michael Jackson, capped with an Americanized version of Tommy Lee Jones and Will Smith’s chief.