Answer:
I run around the city, but I never move.
I have rivers without water. Forests without trees. Mountains without rocks. Towns without houses.
Half-way up the hill, I see you at last, lying beneath me with your sounds and sights. A city in the twilight, dim and vast, with smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights.
My prefix is food. My suffix is rude. My infix comes in rounds. I keep you off the ground. What Am I?
Always wax, yet always wane: I melt, succumbed to the flame. Lighting darkness, with fate unblest, I soon devolve to shapeless mess.
What did the piece of wood say when he saw the screwdriver and screws approaching?