Answer:
Ripped from my mother's womb. Beaten and burned, I become a blood thirsty killer.
It is able to speak because it has a hard gone. You know what it is as soon as it has sung. What is it?
Late afternoons I often bathe. I'll soak in water piping hot. My essence goes through. My see through clothes. Used up am I - I've gone to pot.
It holds most knowledge that has ever been said. But is not the brain, is not the head. To feathers and their masters, it's both bane and boonΒ One empty, and one full.
What is it that was given to you, belongs only to you. And yet your friends use it more than you do?
What never gets any wetter no matter how hard it rains?