| Song | 20 careening |
| Artist | Frontier Ruckus |
| Album | Eternity Of Dimming |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作词 : Matthew Christopher Milia | |
| 作曲 : Matthew Christopher Milia | |
| There's a white limousine with Massachusetts plates | |
| And on the loose its occupants, those 90s prom dates | |
| Careen | |
| I tongue at my molar, you're my only consoler | |
| You're my midnight buyer in the back of the Meijer | |
| Yeah | |
| My world's a comprehensive private diorama | |
| Unpunctuated by any comma | |
| You got | |
| I was a queer balladeer, so proud of our new minivan | |
| You know your dad gave all he had, he does his best for you just when he can | |
| Greenfield Village and a field trip version | |
| Of young faces on every person | |
| I knew | |
| Now all the modern dilettantes, they typed out their privileged isms | |
| In their moronic fonts and hyped-out syllogisms | |
| With some get-well cards from my date-stamp aunt | |
| Yeah, I'd frame all that minor fame, but I just can't | |
| When my best friend Doug's brother had some flashy two-seater | |
| All the sleepover soda when we explode a splashy two-liter | |
| The stoplights are cherry red, or very greenish blue | |
| Like the mushy color of the 7-11 slushy hue | |
| And the liquid wicked warping | |
| Of an ambling ambulance's distancing pitch | |
| I hooked my thumb through your belt loop from which I hitched to every twitch | |
| You made | |
| What we found stashed in the trashed-out woods behind the Taco Bell | |
| Is why I identify early sex with the oily smell | |
| Of WD-40 and a blindness to the ways | |
| Of the kindness behind us and the lukewarm heat lamp buffets | |
| Now we report all our pathos to the food court police | |
| Where the pity and the loss grow so shitty and obese | |
| And sad | |
| But in Baker's frozen woodlot | |
| With the smiling sniffling good snot | |
| You tried to wipe away but you could not | |
| When the sun's explosion | |
| And slow plummet | |
| Can look so frozen | |
| As we glow from it | |
| All our disastrous love, it goes by many titles | |
| It froze inside the snows where I'd dropped it with its broken vitals | |
| But I remember your sorrow outside of Espresso | |
| With all you wanted to borrow, and all I said was "I guess so" | |
| And I wish I had | |
| Just granted you that |
| zuo ci : Matthew Christopher Milia | |
| zuo qu : Matthew Christopher Milia | |
| There' s a white limousine with Massachusetts plates | |
| And on the loose its occupants, those 90s prom dates | |
| Careen | |
| I tongue at my molar, you' re my only consoler | |
| You' re my midnight buyer in the back of the Meijer | |
| Yeah | |
| My world' s a comprehensive private diorama | |
| Unpunctuated by any comma | |
| You got | |
| I was a queer balladeer, so proud of our new minivan | |
| You know your dad gave all he had, he does his best for you just when he can | |
| Greenfield Village and a field trip version | |
| Of young faces on every person | |
| I knew | |
| Now all the modern dilettantes, they typed out their privileged isms | |
| In their moronic fonts and hypedout syllogisms | |
| With some getwell cards from my datestamp aunt | |
| Yeah, I' d frame all that minor fame, but I just can' t | |
| When my best friend Doug' s brother had some flashy twoseater | |
| All the sleepover soda when we explode a splashy twoliter | |
| The stoplights are cherry red, or very greenish blue | |
| Like the mushy color of the 711 slushy hue | |
| And the liquid wicked warping | |
| Of an ambling ambulance' s distancing pitch | |
| I hooked my thumb through your belt loop from which I hitched to every twitch | |
| You made | |
| What we found stashed in the trashedout woods behind the Taco Bell | |
| Is why I identify early sex with the oily smell | |
| Of WD40 and a blindness to the ways | |
| Of the kindness behind us and the lukewarm heat lamp buffets | |
| Now we report all our pathos to the food court police | |
| Where the pity and the loss grow so shitty and obese | |
| And sad | |
| But in Baker' s frozen woodlot | |
| With the smiling sniffling good snot | |
| You tried to wipe away but you could not | |
| When the sun' s explosion | |
| And slow plummet | |
| Can look so frozen | |
| As we glow from it | |
| All our disastrous love, it goes by many titles | |
| It froze inside the snows where I' d dropped it with its broken vitals | |
| But I remember your sorrow outside of Espresso | |
| With all you wanted to borrow, and all I said was " I guess so" | |
| And I wish I had | |
| Just granted you that |
| zuò cí : Matthew Christopher Milia | |
| zuò qǔ : Matthew Christopher Milia | |
| There' s a white limousine with Massachusetts plates | |
| And on the loose its occupants, those 90s prom dates | |
| Careen | |
| I tongue at my molar, you' re my only consoler | |
| You' re my midnight buyer in the back of the Meijer | |
| Yeah | |
| My world' s a comprehensive private diorama | |
| Unpunctuated by any comma | |
| You got | |
| I was a queer balladeer, so proud of our new minivan | |
| You know your dad gave all he had, he does his best for you just when he can | |
| Greenfield Village and a field trip version | |
| Of young faces on every person | |
| I knew | |
| Now all the modern dilettantes, they typed out their privileged isms | |
| In their moronic fonts and hypedout syllogisms | |
| With some getwell cards from my datestamp aunt | |
| Yeah, I' d frame all that minor fame, but I just can' t | |
| When my best friend Doug' s brother had some flashy twoseater | |
| All the sleepover soda when we explode a splashy twoliter | |
| The stoplights are cherry red, or very greenish blue | |
| Like the mushy color of the 711 slushy hue | |
| And the liquid wicked warping | |
| Of an ambling ambulance' s distancing pitch | |
| I hooked my thumb through your belt loop from which I hitched to every twitch | |
| You made | |
| What we found stashed in the trashedout woods behind the Taco Bell | |
| Is why I identify early sex with the oily smell | |
| Of WD40 and a blindness to the ways | |
| Of the kindness behind us and the lukewarm heat lamp buffets | |
| Now we report all our pathos to the food court police | |
| Where the pity and the loss grow so shitty and obese | |
| And sad | |
| But in Baker' s frozen woodlot | |
| With the smiling sniffling good snot | |
| You tried to wipe away but you could not | |
| When the sun' s explosion | |
| And slow plummet | |
| Can look so frozen | |
| As we glow from it | |
| All our disastrous love, it goes by many titles | |
| It froze inside the snows where I' d dropped it with its broken vitals | |
| But I remember your sorrow outside of Espresso | |
| With all you wanted to borrow, and all I said was " I guess so" | |
| And I wish I had | |
| Just granted you that |