I carry papers on my face, And keep them steady in one place. I have a clip that holds them tight, So you can write both day and night. I’m not a desk, I’m small and light; What am I?

What is black when it’s clean and white when it’s dirty?

I close out light or lose my sight, In slats or senses, day or night. I dim the world or fail to find, what others see, I leave behind.

Golden chambers, sweetly filled, where buzzing architects tirelessly build. A waxy palace, hexagonal and neat, a place where liquid gold finds its seat.

I am a humble servant, a giver of things, though I possess no hands. I stand in kitchens, bathrooms, and sometimes by the door, dispensing what the user demands. With a push or a pull, a twist or a squeeze, I make the task so grand.