Answer:
When liquid splashes me, none seeps through. When I am moved a lot, liquid I spew. When I am hit, color I change. And color, I come in quite a range. What I cover is very complex, and I am very easy to flex.
I am always hungry, I must always be fed. The finger I lick will soon turn red.
I cannot be felt, seen or touched. Yet I can be found in everybody. My existence is always in debate. Yet I have my own style of music.
My prefix is food. My suffix is rude. My infix comes in rounds. I keep you off the ground. What Am I?
What does man love more than life, fear more than death or mortal strife. What the poor have, the rich require, and what contented men desire. What the miser spends, and the spendthrift saves. And all men carry to their graves.
What gets broken without being hold?