Turn my left wrist, I spit hot. Turn my right wrist, I spit cold. My head rests on a bent neck; Chrome has me in a chokehold.

Break me once and some would say, bad fortune follows on its way. Yet whole, I quietly borrow light to show your world reversed in sight.

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

Twist the dial and hunt the air, between the static, I am there. AM chatter, FM song, I’ve carried voices all along.

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.