Put me on the floor and let me soak it up.
The mess you made, pouring your sweet lemonade into a paper cup.
Take me with both hands, and wring me out,
Pour yourself another glass, and bring us both up to your mouth.
Hold it there, don’t move– I’m afraid that if you do,
I’ll be on the floor again, cleaning up after you.
But when you snatch me up again, and press your hands against my chest,
It’s not the way you look,
But it’s the way you see… That makes a mess of me.
Suddenly, I’m cool with being used.
And soaking up your mess.