A tool for opening crates and yet also a powerful weapon to fend of some pirates

Oh, I am tired, yet cannot sleep, I wish a mallet would not strike so deep. I lay in bed, with weary dread, as sleep drifts by, just out of reach.

I tend to be a wild card I might make you laugh very hard My archival wears a disguise Sometimes he’s a man but Sometimes he flies

From crashing seas or garden hose, from perfume mist upon your clothes. I scatter drops that drift away, what am I that floats this way?

I sit, I twiddle, my thumbs hand in hand, with nothing to do, nowhere to go, I drift in my home.