On Top of the World
I stand on four legs but I'm not alive. I hold your workday from nine to five. What am I?
A Desk.
I travel the world in seconds to deliver important news, through the computer screen, your eyes will view. What am i?
An Email.
I keep a record but tell no tales. Flip my pages as time sails. What am I?
A Calendar.
Hold me close, feel the heat, without a flame, and with a morning treat. What am I?
Coffee.
I am not a clipper, yet I clip, holding together what might slip. What am I?
A Paperclip.
I support you while you think and scheme, I'm on wheels but not a vehicle it seems. What am I?
A Chair.
A building, a room, a place to thrive, where business and effort come alive. What am I?
An Office.
In an office jungle, I roar with might, turning thoughts from pixels to black and white. What am I?
A Printer.
I have two hands, on my face they lie, you can check on me as your day goes by. What am I?
A Clock.
A trail of thoughts my tip creates, on a journey with no eraser skates. What am I?
A Pen.
I have many keys, but no locks. I have space, but no rooms. You may enter, but you may not go outside. What am I?
A Keyboard.
Moving with ease, floor to floor, I open my doors to offer more. What am I?
An Elevator.
I create twins or triplets of what you've written, without a single mistake to be smitten. What am I?
A Copy Machine.
I’m fried or baked, with a glaze or not, a delightful office treat that hits the spot. What am I?
A Donut.
I am a surface, often white; with markers bright, I highlight insights. What am I?
A Whiteboard.
I'm not a zoo creature, but I sure can scurry. With me at your side, you'll browse without worry. What am I?
A Mouse.
A room enclosed, where voices join, to discuss, to argue, to anoint. What am I?
A Meeting Room.
I'm filled with lines on which to write, capturing your ideas, day or night. What am I?
A Notepad.
A potion of warmth and wakefulness I brew, giving a jolt to the office crew. What am I?
A Coffee Machine.
I have pointed fangs, and I sit and wait. I have piercing force, and I crunch with weight. I grab my victims, but they do not fight. I join them each with a single, quick bite. What am I?
A Stapler.
You answer me, although I never ask you questions. What am I?
A Telephone.
No room is needed, though voices fill space; distances conquered, face to virtual face. What am I?
An Online Call.
In me, you'll find a web of rings, making order of paper wings. What am I?
A Binder.
I hold liquids best served hot or cold, and in my presence, gossip is often told. What am I?
A Water Cooler.
I stand in silence, guarding a treasure trove. Hold the key and through my memories, you'll rove. What am I?
A Filing Cabinet.