The first tells jokes, of which you might laugh, wonder, or rage The second can be taking paint from a wall, or clothes on a stage If you're lucky, you can still find me on a newspaper page

I hoard forgotten treasures, dust motes dancing in my beams. My access is often treacherous, a rickety ladder's climb. I swell with heat in the summer, and contract in winter's chill, a silent witness to time's slow, relentless will.

I’m a hinge with no door, at the middle I bend. I help you wave, scratch, push or lend.

I stand guard in a pitiful place; Gelatinous fortress, an arid embrace. I fight a foe that you cannot see, but another sense is glad for me. I fade each day, a duty unsung: Yet without my touch, civility's stung.

I show what’s in front, but I’m not what you see, I change with the light, yet stay just as I be, I vanish when touched, but never truly flee.