The maze beneath forgotten town, Where dead may walk without a sound, A single sprawl of spooky lair, Or perhaps a tool for feline’s hair-?? ...Oh come on, who made a joke of the riddle? That fourth line was terrible!

I sit upon the highest crown, A stylish brim that curves right down. A felted friend from days of old, To shield the eyes of detectives bold.

Worn by the rich elite, half a pair of glasses, singular lens symbol of wealth.

I hold a thousand voices, Yet all of me is still. I travel through the ages, Without moving at will.

The Texas instrument that's lacking keys. No adding, multipliers, or parentheses. Subtract and divide, those are the choices. And there may be some unpleasant noises.