My water is hot and steamy, close to a boil, it rests beneath the rocky soil. When pressure climbs, it rises with might, and suddenly bursts upwards, what a sight!

My flesh is sweet, my skin is thin, I have a stone, but no original sin. A purple blush on a summer day, I turn to prunes when taken away. What am I?

People make me, save me, change me, raise me, and sometimes lose me. What am I?

I circle the waist in fabric neat, Or hug the edge where land and street. I dodge the truth with sidelong pace, Yet frame the bottom with modest grace.

I can help transport people, but I cannot carry, pull, nor drive my own self. People use me to end a cheesy poem involving love, trees and babies.