Everything Is Still Lyrics
| Song | Everything Is Still |
| Artist | Jeff Lang |
| Album | Prepare Me Well |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作曲 : Lang | |
| You've been feeling like an axle | |
| On a car that you don't trust | |
| You no longer want the journey | |
| But you tell yourself you must | |
| You plug it in to find the reason you do it for | |
| 'Till the strings start scraping | |
| Sounds are shaping | |
| Sending out their chill | |
| Until the air is shaking | |
| And the movement's making | |
| Lines blur at their will | |
| Everything is still | |
| Fredericksburg's not too far away | |
| Heading down I-95 | |
| Yeah, but Sundays got you crawling | |
| Slow enough to check your pulse | |
| Time zones stop the phone calls | |
| You know (too well) how that feels | |
| Waitress with 'too much' eye makeup | |
| Brings you your eight-buck meal | |
| You could almost bet | |
| The air's so wet you'd swear | |
| It oughta spill | |
| Flies buzz 'round the streetlights | |
| You've got nothing but time to kill | |
| Everything is still |
| zuo qu : Lang | |
| You' ve been feeling like an axle | |
| On a car that you don' t trust | |
| You no longer want the journey | |
| But you tell yourself you must | |
| You plug it in to find the reason you do it for | |
| ' Till the strings start scraping | |
| Sounds are shaping | |
| Sending out their chill | |
| Until the air is shaking | |
| And the movement' s making | |
| Lines blur at their will | |
| Everything is still | |
| Fredericksburg' s not too far away | |
| Heading down I95 | |
| Yeah, but Sundays got you crawling | |
| Slow enough to check your pulse | |
| Time zones stop the phone calls | |
| You know too well how that feels | |
| Waitress with ' too much' eye makeup | |
| Brings you your eightbuck meal | |
| You could almost bet | |
| The air' s so wet you' d swear | |
| It oughta spill | |
| Flies buzz ' round the streetlights | |
| You' ve got nothing but time to kill | |
| Everything is still |
| zuò qǔ : Lang | |
| You' ve been feeling like an axle | |
| On a car that you don' t trust | |
| You no longer want the journey | |
| But you tell yourself you must | |
| You plug it in to find the reason you do it for | |
| ' Till the strings start scraping | |
| Sounds are shaping | |
| Sending out their chill | |
| Until the air is shaking | |
| And the movement' s making | |
| Lines blur at their will | |
| Everything is still | |
| Fredericksburg' s not too far away | |
| Heading down I95 | |
| Yeah, but Sundays got you crawling | |
| Slow enough to check your pulse | |
| Time zones stop the phone calls | |
| You know too well how that feels | |
| Waitress with ' too much' eye makeup | |
| Brings you your eightbuck meal | |
| You could almost bet | |
| The air' s so wet you' d swear | |
| It oughta spill | |
| Flies buzz ' round the streetlights | |
| You' ve got nothing but time to kill | |
| Everything is still |
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