Round and round, I twine and twirl, like a yarn spun by a wise old girl. With each pass, the dance grows tight, weaving stories in the soft moonlight.

What do you call a pencil with two erasers?

Though born with fingers, none can feel. I guard with cloth instead of steel.

Next to me are houses lined up, side by side, I can stretch for miles far, sometimes narrow, sometimes wide, Many feet and cars have crossed my way, I'm mostly travelled on by day. What am I?

I am full of holes, yet I can hold a sea. I am soft to the touch, but I fight the grime. I give up all my weight when you squeeze me tight, and grow heavy again when I take a drink. What am I?