I sit on one eye, a lonely glass lens, A fancy old piece from your grandmother's trends. I don't help you read in the dark of the night, Unless you pop me in and adjust your sight.

The boy who cries wolf sets his pants on fire. Although he is still a liar, he is no longer bothered by the insects in his attire. Or so he does say, but framing the innocent will never pay. Pantsless, he stands, getting eaten by the wolf himself, and the here wanted insects will just resume filling their shelves.

What do bowling lanes and roofs have in common? You might also tell someone to get their mind out of here if they make a bawdy comment.

In the mornings I'm full, after a rush I will empty but I'll be bursting again by the end of the work day. I'll take you home and I take you places. Have an adventure and come on me. I stretch long, I'm winding, some call me treacherous, sometimes I save lives. I connect people but people may die on me. What am I?

I am outside but inside. I have no roof but I am part of the house. What am I?