From round to long, I change my shape, one of me’s known for a missing escape. I sweeten the morning, lure kids from their beds, their feet find the table before sleep leaves their heads. With coffee or juice or tea I agree, always delicious, ask Homer, ask me. So what am I called, with flavors still growing, a treat much beloved and forever worth knowing?

I live in a casket inside your pocket. Drawn out lifeless but left alive. Sucked the life out of me and blew it away.

You probably have two, and five or six more. Shakespeare frequently used five. The staircase in your home has one, as do some invertebrates. My non-American friends may have difficulty with one of these clues.

Everyone has me, I'm at your very core. You have over two hundred and babies have even more! I help you stand tall and have your back. But although I cannot bend I sometimes crack.

Put water in front of me, and I become a relieving place. Take away my tee, and I invade your personal space. Take away my first and last, and I do not win.