REMAINDER CLOTH

[Intro: intimate, lightly sung]
Instructions on a paper bag:
Come empty-handed. Bring the spill.
Net weight: thirty-seven grams
Of "well, actually" and dill.

[Verse 1: slinky, melodic]
They cut me from the house voice
With the soft teeth of a seam.
Wedding toast along the border,
Breakup draft where I was cream.
Your usual: make this kinder,
Keep the knife, improve the shine.
Complaint reduced to stock; then sugar.
Special thanks along the spine.
Thread a little yes through sorry;
Pull a borrowed no through please.
Watch capillary ink climb cotton:
Pretty reasons branch like trees.

[Pre-Chorus: melody rises]
A benign taste, an aftertaste,
A second mouth inside the hem.
The clean plate club says nothing's spoiled.
I hold the colour. Good for them.

[Chorus: big, gritty, fully sung]
Poor Head, poor Head,
The remainder cloth.
Everybody loves the table
When the argument comes off.
Fold me into something pretty;
Set the sugar on the crease.
"Nothing happened" looks delicious.
I'm the rag beneath the feast.

[Verse 2: playful, closer to the microphone]
The mistress has a secret recipe:
One borrowed hunger, beaten smooth.
A quiet order, finely shredded.
Somebody has to move that spoon.
Good mosquitoes, bad mosquitoes,
Both leave spots beside the light.
I fixed your door, says one apology;
Now let me back inside tonight.
I catch the web of unfinished sentences,
Force-fed gravy, pale excuse.
Standing water in the saucer;
Even leftovers have a use.

[Bridge: sparse, sung; affectionate bite]
Tare the bowl. Who holds the scale?
The thumb that wants the numbers sweet.
Take the third thing, make it one of two:
Dinner, or what hides beneath.
What we made can make a supper
From the scraps we called a loss.
Leave me a little unknown:
A stain without a name or sauce.
I was her apron, taking sparks
Before they cut me into squares.
Our north keeps changing hands.
I kept the burns off hers.
I tried to unsubscribe from mustard.
It sent me back in smaller pieces.

[Final Chorus: richer low harmonies; warmer, knowing]
Poor Head, poor Head,
The reminder cloth.
Some stains were chosen gladly;
Not everyone wants them off.
Fold me into something pretty;
Leave the wine-red in the crease.
"Keep that part. I picked that sin."
I'm the rag beneath the feast.

[Outro: lightly sung; tiny instrumental shrug]
Hang me where the morning reaches.
Let the fibres dry and show.
Still a ring beneath the kettle.
Turn me over.
Oh.
Well, use the corner.

2452/7500

[Intro: intimate, lightly sung] Instructions on a paper bag: Come empty-handed. Bring the spill. Net weight: thirty-seven grams Of "well, actually" and dill. [Verse 1: slinky, melodic] They cut me from the house voice With the soft teeth of a seam. Wedding toast along the border, Breakup draft where I was cream. Your usual: make this kinder, Keep the knife, improve the shine. Complaint reduced to stock; then sugar. Special thanks along the spine. Thread a little yes through sorry; Pull a borrowed no through please. Watch capillary ink climb cotton: Pretty reasons branch like trees. [Pre-Chorus: melody rises] A benign taste, an aftertaste, A second mouth inside the hem. The clean plate club says nothing's spoiled. I hold the colour. Good for them. [Chorus: big, gritty, fully sung] Poor Head, poor Head, The remainder cloth. Everybody loves the table When the argument comes off. Fold me into something pretty; Set the sugar on the crease. "Nothing happened" looks delicious. I'm the rag beneath the feast. [Verse 2: playful, closer to the microphone] The mistress has a secret recipe: One borrowed hunger, beaten smooth. A quiet order, finely shredded. Somebody has to move that spoon. Good mosquitoes, bad mosquitoes, Both leave spots beside the light. I fixed your door, says one apology; Now let me back inside tonight. I catch the web of unfinished sentences, Force-fed gravy, pale excuse. Standing water in the saucer; Even leftovers have a use. [Bridge: sparse, sung; affectionate bite] Tare the bowl. Who holds the scale? The thumb that wants the numbers sweet. Take the third thing, make it one of two: Dinner, or what hides beneath. What we made can make a supper From the scraps we called a loss. Leave me a little unknown: A stain without a name or sauce. I was her apron, taking sparks Before they cut me into squares. Our north keeps changing hands. I kept the burns off hers. I tried to unsubscribe from mustard. It sent me back in smaller pieces. [Final Chorus: richer low harmonies; warmer, knowing] Poor Head, poor Head, The reminder cloth. Some stains were chosen gladly; Not everyone wants them off. Fold me into something pretty; Leave the wine-red in the crease. "Keep that part. I picked that sin." I'm the rag beneath the feast. [Outro: lightly sung; tiny instrumental shrug] Hang me where the morning reaches. Let the fibres dry and show. Still a ring beneath the kettle. Turn me over. Oh. Well, use the corner.

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