I have no throat, yet love to shout, I help small whispers travel out. At games or rallies I take the lead, Turning gentle pleas to forceful creed. A hollow cone with brassy tone - What am I, though not a bone?

Portable wardrobes that travel the world, sharing secrets of business and pleasure, wheels whispering stories of wanderlust on airport floors.

Upon my skin are stories of old, My insides are all damp and cold, From the dawn of man's first fire, Shelter within has always transpired What am I?

I top your bathtub and crown your beer. I fill your pillow and grace your Michelin plate, my dear.

I stand in silence yet speak in rings, I drink from the earth but never from springs. In spring I wake, in autumn I fall, I shelter the weak and outlive us all. My arms reach wide but never embrace, I mark the years on my weathered face. Cut me down and I still remain. In books, in homes, in ships at sea and trains. What am I?