| Residue, tell me what can I do
|
| To get the trace of you off of me '
|
| Residue, on the tip of my tongue
|
| And filling up my lungs where I breathe
|
| I wish that I could face
|
| All the flavors I still taste
|
| I wish that I could peel off
|
| All the layers that I feel of residue
|
| Residue, on the small of my back
|
| And making me go slack when I’m brave
|
| Residue, like a rash on my skin
|
| And dripping down my chin when I shave
|
| I wish that I could face
|
| All the flavors I still taste
|
| I wish that I could peel off
|
| All the layers that I feel of residue
|
| Hiding underneath my nails
|
| Puncturing my stiff starched sails
|
| Wash and dry, iron and fold
|
| It’s starting to get kind of old
|
| It’s starting to make me feel old
|
| Residue, on the edge of the bed
|
| And propping up my head so I can’t sleep
|
| Residue, in the corners and seams
|
| And dancing in my dreams midnight’s deep
|
| I wish that I could face
|
| All the flavors I still taste
|
| I wish that I could peel off
|
| All the layers that I feel of residue
|
| Residue… |