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.

I slip from sips of morning brew, or splash from sauces, fresh and new. From bustling markets I stake my blight, no ordinary wash can make me right. You scrub, you soak, you curse and pout, but I remain, quite annoying no doubt!

I am a word of two meanings, I might be made of oak. Often a part of a wheel, When you've said so, you have ???.

I make a tall point, but I am not made of limestone. You might see me in places like, Egypt, Washington, and Rome.