I was once dressed in comfort, Now worn thin by time and care. I still hold together somehow, Though too much of me is air. I may cover tired shoulders, Or describe a tired excuse. The more I am relied upon, The less I have to use. What word am I?

Rock a by, baby, on the treetop When the wind blows, I will rock. Please call CPS on the mother who put me up there while carrying her baby!

I have no voice, yet I can sing, To give the faithful praise I ring. In books of leather, I am bound, With sacred words and joyful sound. In times of worship, I am read, To lift the souls of those who tread

Mind your head! Don’t Underestimate Chucked Knives!

Upon the sea I drift and gleam, upon your coffee I may steam. Beneath your head I softly form, adapting to your sleeping form.