As a noun, I fly without wings. As a verb, I’m an old-school tactic for con-men.

I’m called a parent, but I never give birth. I host every connection, route every signal, and when I fail, nothing else can boot. What am I?

A porcelain boat in a tiled sea, Where bubbles and rubber ducks roam free. A tranquil retreat from the daily grind, Where worries and water intertwine.

At my job, no one is better than I, Day and night, keeping a watchful eye, My boss is pleased when they reap their yield, Yet I stay outstanding in my field.

I have only adoration for you, and I spread this far and wide I can support you with or without a human vessel If directed at flames I can cause heated emotions to grow stronger But I only wish to cool you down What am I?