Growing up in poverty, luxuries were few, but don't clean this at suppertime, then woe be to you!

I rise without being called. A bubble with no bath. Poke me and I punish you, I'm friction's aftermath. What am I?

I have no legs, yet I hold you high, Between two friends, I softly lie. I sway with the breeze, but never roam, A floating bed when you're away from home. What am I?

I’m a frothy crown upon your brew, or bubbly lace where waves roll through.

I keep out intruders and keep in the sheep, With posts that are sturdy and panels to keep. I have plenty of links or sharp pickets of wood, And I've stood at the edge of the yard as I should. Though I never take steps, I go all round the yard, And crossing my path can sometimes be hard.