I’m always dropping down under the table, then everyone tries to pick me up. They want me to clean up what should have been swallowed. But the more they make me lap up. . . the dirtier I feel.

You walk in dirty like I’m not already sick of it. You press me flat and call it welcome. You never thank me. You never even look. And you think I’ll stay here forever?

There are words galore, but before was was was was was what before?

I can be found in computers or on your shoulder, and I often accompany a crunch.

I’m in the room but nobody sees me. I’m not a ghost, I’m just awkward. What am I?