I can be given without generosity. Taken without theft. Owed without law. Broken without touch. Lost without leaving. What am I?

Irish spirits, On the rocks, Or keen among the rye, One last call, Before ye fall, With red and puffy eyes

I grow on trees, but I’m not a fruit. I’m not a flower, yet flowers follow me, I promise something I never deliver myself. I arrive loudly, yet leave without a sound. And my entire purpose is to disappear.

A singer with a toothy grin upon a wooden stage, It hums a sharp, serrated tune to turn a golden page. It carves through yellow mountainside with cold and biting art, To steal away a wedge of gold and tear the wheel apart.

Fuelled by oil stored in me, Pilots might do a roll of me, To avoid a bullet shot out of me. People might play with monkeys released from me, Or drink far too much ale stored within me, And the next day feel that they'd scraped the bottom of me