The Waxman's moving his shoulders
He walks down reading the paper
But the tar sticks, top of the feet
Like a neighbor, he yells in the street
And he's a dead palm, still on the beach
But his hair's gone, a bottle of bleach
In the water, the news was printed on his arm all along
Sliding through the open air
Hands are placed into the dirt
Feeling 'round for something
He is always there
I'm getting closer, making my way to him
Older, I'm much too young for him
He can take my skin and replace
The wax so he won't melt on down
I'll give him all of my feelings
If I'm dead now, it was worth seeing
If he would let me live inside his mind for a while
I'm sliding through the open air
My hands are placed into the dirt
I'm feeling 'round for something
I am always there
I'm sliding through the open air
My hands are placed into the dirt
Feeling 'round for something
I am always there
I am always there
I am always there
I am always there
