How can you accuse me, Of what it is, that you do best? It makes me boil with anger, Causing bellows from my chest. My toll of weight is held, in goals and fingers nonetheless. Either way you’ll want a spot. My handle held to pour or sweat.

I am a deep water carved by ice, You might like my inhabitants with your sour rice. What am I?

Literally, spineless. They range in size from less than one thousandth of an inch to over thirty feet.

To your photos, I add a pop of fun, Through my fibers, water runs, When you speak without thinking, I have slipped. Rip me from a cigarette? Your lungs are unequipped.

I have a single tongue but I never speak. I hold doors tight when hinges grow weak. Lift me up or slide me clear, To open the way for those who are near.