Song | 16 17 sylvan manor - dealer |
Artist | Frontier Ruckus |
Album | Eternity Of Dimming |
Download | Image LRC TXT |
作词 : Matthew Christopher Milia | |
作曲 : Matthew Christopher Milia | |
I'll be swimming in the ditches | |
With the brimming snowmelt | |
With unexplainable fishes | |
And the plopped-down mallards belt out | |
For vouchers of pizza coupons | |
Surrounding the mailbox | |
And drowned in the lawns | |
There with me | |
Yes, some spiny heart grieves | |
For our occasional escape | |
In its artichoke leaves | |
That our bottom teeth familially scrape | |
Then discard on creased paper plates | |
As a knife extricates what's released | |
And the heat levitates | |
Does your dad fall asleep | |
With the remote in his hand? | |
Does a digital beep | |
Promote gentle reprimand | |
To share all your love | |
Like the threadbare cloth of | |
Some T-shirt your mom wears | |
From a tournament of soccer you played | |
In 1998? | |
He bakes blank birthday cakes | |
In the grocery store flicker | |
And the hard plastic cases | |
He seals with a sticker | |
With a bar code and what's owed | |
And in a gossiping snicker | |
The birthday-boy moms | |
With expired pom-poms gravitate | |
To personalize one | |
For her first and only prized son | |
I cannot sleep | |
With this language snowing so deeply | |
In my head | |
Dim soccer goals | |
And non-marking gym soles | |
With which I walk through instead | |
The archaic layout of the buildings that play out | |
My past as I'm lying in my bed | |
They will not stay out and so the only way out | |
Is to worship these worlds with my face red | |
Blushing beauteously | |
Rushing circuitously | |
Shaking with every endorphin | |
Constantly mesmerized | |
By all I've memorized | |
Leaving no place as an orphan | |
I perfect my conveyance by directing a seance | |
From an eighth grade computer lab station in the basement | |
Where the latchkey kids feel like a non-factor | |
And the black-ice skids call the strip-mall | |
Chiropractor | |
To the sweetly faulty parents | |
On their white-stained salty errands | |
Nonetheless, I digress | |
I walk through | |
Each janitor's closet | |
And lavatory faucet | |
And desk configuration | |
And signature validation | |
On a permission slip nervously forged | |
Clarifying tenuous eras of my penmanship's formation | |
The holy gradation | |
For the coaches that wronged me | |
And my sense of belonging | |
There's a song I can taste when the braces are tightened | |
And the forceps clamp and the summer is heightened | |
And my mouth is the amplifier that voices its name | |
Well, no two-bit piece of shit interloper | |
Is gonna touch my world or molest my hope or | |
My kingdom that lingers in each drawer I open | |
When I open it up I'll be groping at what is for damn sure | |
In the dimming of Sylvan Manor |
zuo ci : Matthew Christopher Milia | |
zuo qu : Matthew Christopher Milia | |
I' ll be swimming in the ditches | |
With the brimming snowmelt | |
With unexplainable fishes | |
And the ploppeddown mallards belt out | |
For vouchers of pizza coupons | |
Surrounding the mailbox | |
And drowned in the lawns | |
There with me | |
Yes, some spiny heart grieves | |
For our occasional escape | |
In its artichoke leaves | |
That our bottom teeth familially scrape | |
Then discard on creased paper plates | |
As a knife extricates what' s released | |
And the heat levitates | |
Does your dad fall asleep | |
With the remote in his hand? | |
Does a digital beep | |
Promote gentle reprimand | |
To share all your love | |
Like the threadbare cloth of | |
Some Tshirt your mom wears | |
From a tournament of soccer you played | |
In 1998? | |
He bakes blank birthday cakes | |
In the grocery store flicker | |
And the hard plastic cases | |
He seals with a sticker | |
With a bar code and what' s owed | |
And in a gossiping snicker | |
The birthdayboy moms | |
With expired pompoms gravitate | |
To personalize one | |
For her first and only prized son | |
I cannot sleep | |
With this language snowing so deeply | |
In my head | |
Dim soccer goals | |
And nonmarking gym soles | |
With which I walk through instead | |
The archaic layout of the buildings that play out | |
My past as I' m lying in my bed | |
They will not stay out and so the only way out | |
Is to worship these worlds with my face red | |
Blushing beauteously | |
Rushing circuitously | |
Shaking with every endorphin | |
Constantly mesmerized | |
By all I' ve memorized | |
Leaving no place as an orphan | |
I perfect my conveyance by directing a seance | |
From an eighth grade computer lab station in the basement | |
Where the latchkey kids feel like a nonfactor | |
And the blackice skids call the stripmall | |
Chiropractor | |
To the sweetly faulty parents | |
On their whitestained salty errands | |
Nonetheless, I digress | |
I walk through | |
Each janitor' s closet | |
And lavatory faucet | |
And desk configuration | |
And signature validation | |
On a permission slip nervously forged | |
Clarifying tenuous eras of my penmanship' s formation | |
The holy gradation | |
For the coaches that wronged me | |
And my sense of belonging | |
There' s a song I can taste when the braces are tightened | |
And the forceps clamp and the summer is heightened | |
And my mouth is the amplifier that voices its name | |
Well, no twobit piece of shit interloper | |
Is gonna touch my world or molest my hope or | |
My kingdom that lingers in each drawer I open | |
When I open it up I' ll be groping at what is for damn sure | |
In the dimming of Sylvan Manor |
zuò cí : Matthew Christopher Milia | |
zuò qǔ : Matthew Christopher Milia | |
I' ll be swimming in the ditches | |
With the brimming snowmelt | |
With unexplainable fishes | |
And the ploppeddown mallards belt out | |
For vouchers of pizza coupons | |
Surrounding the mailbox | |
And drowned in the lawns | |
There with me | |
Yes, some spiny heart grieves | |
For our occasional escape | |
In its artichoke leaves | |
That our bottom teeth familially scrape | |
Then discard on creased paper plates | |
As a knife extricates what' s released | |
And the heat levitates | |
Does your dad fall asleep | |
With the remote in his hand? | |
Does a digital beep | |
Promote gentle reprimand | |
To share all your love | |
Like the threadbare cloth of | |
Some Tshirt your mom wears | |
From a tournament of soccer you played | |
In 1998? | |
He bakes blank birthday cakes | |
In the grocery store flicker | |
And the hard plastic cases | |
He seals with a sticker | |
With a bar code and what' s owed | |
And in a gossiping snicker | |
The birthdayboy moms | |
With expired pompoms gravitate | |
To personalize one | |
For her first and only prized son | |
I cannot sleep | |
With this language snowing so deeply | |
In my head | |
Dim soccer goals | |
And nonmarking gym soles | |
With which I walk through instead | |
The archaic layout of the buildings that play out | |
My past as I' m lying in my bed | |
They will not stay out and so the only way out | |
Is to worship these worlds with my face red | |
Blushing beauteously | |
Rushing circuitously | |
Shaking with every endorphin | |
Constantly mesmerized | |
By all I' ve memorized | |
Leaving no place as an orphan | |
I perfect my conveyance by directing a seance | |
From an eighth grade computer lab station in the basement | |
Where the latchkey kids feel like a nonfactor | |
And the blackice skids call the stripmall | |
Chiropractor | |
To the sweetly faulty parents | |
On their whitestained salty errands | |
Nonetheless, I digress | |
I walk through | |
Each janitor' s closet | |
And lavatory faucet | |
And desk configuration | |
And signature validation | |
On a permission slip nervously forged | |
Clarifying tenuous eras of my penmanship' s formation | |
The holy gradation | |
For the coaches that wronged me | |
And my sense of belonging | |
There' s a song I can taste when the braces are tightened | |
And the forceps clamp and the summer is heightened | |
And my mouth is the amplifier that voices its name | |
Well, no twobit piece of shit interloper | |
Is gonna touch my world or molest my hope or | |
My kingdom that lingers in each drawer I open | |
When I open it up I' ll be groping at what is for damn sure | |
In the dimming of Sylvan Manor |