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.

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!