| Song | Parade |
| Artist | The Antlers |
| Album | In London |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| Right when the blizzard ends, they throw a fucking huge parade- | |
| A great excuse for celebration of the mess they've made. | |
| But then when the streets get flooded, we know what proximity’s worth, | |
| ‘cause we're already here, in the same place when our phones don't work. | |
| So then we lie down in our field and just do nothing at all, | |
| and I’m getting ready for when everything is wonderful | |
| for just a couple pairs of broken bones with broken feathers in blood, | |
| in a meadow, uncut and understood. | |
| We can be an island apart from a ceaseless war on our heart, | |
| Harbored in a fortress insurmountable, | |
| Taller than affliction, safe wherever we are. | |
| Erasing horror and disgust, | |
| Rewinding the sorrow and the rust. | |
| Before our suffering’s suffering, hadn’t we suffered enough? | |
| On the morning that we're both 19 and newly on our own, | |
| and all we know is “each other” and invisible homes, | |
| we find two empty seats in the back of a car in an empty parking lot, | |
| where all our bridges are abandoned and the cops have forgot. | |
| And I can feel the difference when the day begins, | |
| like all I know is, "This year will be the year we win." | |
| We smoke the paper from the banner from our past parades | |
| and start again, before the memory of the mess we've made. |
| Right when the blizzard ends, they throw a fucking huge parade | |
| A great excuse for celebration of the mess they' ve made. | |
| But then when the streets get flooded, we know what proximity' s worth, | |
| ' cause we' re already here, in the same place when our phones don' t work. | |
| So then we lie down in our field and just do nothing at all, | |
| and I' m getting ready for when everything is wonderful | |
| for just a couple pairs of broken bones with broken feathers in blood, | |
| in a meadow, uncut and understood. | |
| We can be an island apart from a ceaseless war on our heart, | |
| Harbored in a fortress insurmountable, | |
| Taller than affliction, safe wherever we are. | |
| Erasing horror and disgust, | |
| Rewinding the sorrow and the rust. | |
| Before our suffering' s suffering, hadn' t we suffered enough? | |
| On the morning that we' re both 19 and newly on our own, | |
| and all we know is " each other" and invisible homes, | |
| we find two empty seats in the back of a car in an empty parking lot, | |
| where all our bridges are abandoned and the cops have forgot. | |
| And I can feel the difference when the day begins, | |
| like all I know is, " This year will be the year we win." | |
| We smoke the paper from the banner from our past parades | |
| and start again, before the memory of the mess we' ve made. |
| Right when the blizzard ends, they throw a fucking huge parade | |
| A great excuse for celebration of the mess they' ve made. | |
| But then when the streets get flooded, we know what proximity' s worth, | |
| ' cause we' re already here, in the same place when our phones don' t work. | |
| So then we lie down in our field and just do nothing at all, | |
| and I' m getting ready for when everything is wonderful | |
| for just a couple pairs of broken bones with broken feathers in blood, | |
| in a meadow, uncut and understood. | |
| We can be an island apart from a ceaseless war on our heart, | |
| Harbored in a fortress insurmountable, | |
| Taller than affliction, safe wherever we are. | |
| Erasing horror and disgust, | |
| Rewinding the sorrow and the rust. | |
| Before our suffering' s suffering, hadn' t we suffered enough? | |
| On the morning that we' re both 19 and newly on our own, | |
| and all we know is " each other" and invisible homes, | |
| we find two empty seats in the back of a car in an empty parking lot, | |
| where all our bridges are abandoned and the cops have forgot. | |
| And I can feel the difference when the day begins, | |
| like all I know is, " This year will be the year we win." | |
| We smoke the paper from the banner from our past parades | |
| and start again, before the memory of the mess we' ve made. |