A can of cola, an unfilled bathtub for dirty bodies and storing empties. The land-line's nagging, the mail is scattered on the floor, and through a keyhole of a triple bolted door, it's melodrama, it's confused chemicals. It's dirty laundry, it's empty styrofoam. The Giants won and all the firecracker shells are littering the street and I don't give a shit. My shoes ran off somewhere and I haven't even cared to organize a search. My ball of nerves, don't mistake me, I'll refuse you if you choose to track me down. And don't you make me leave without wishing you well 'til I return from my brief sojourn to the center of the earth. As far as I tell you it's not as bad as all of that, and I promise not to be reckless. Oh heart of mine, heart of mine, it's your face that brings me back every time. It's dirty laundry, it's empty styrofoam.