I'm the end of a morning brew, yet a start for something new. I leave a dark stain, a bitter perfume. What am I, in my discarded tomb?

It puts it on its skin It puts it in the basket Or it gets the hose again

Commonly filled with helium and its contents inhaled to make your voice sound funny.

The car often found on the shoulder, or the disk on the rim of the tea-holder.

I have arms but never reach, I offer rest but never preach. I hold you still when day is done, yet never stand to join the run.