Aqualung Lyrics
| Song | Aqualung |
| Artist | Jethro Tull |
| Album | Living with the Past [live] |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作词 : Anderson, Anderson | |
| Sitting on a park bench -- | |
| aqualung | |
| eyeing ittle girls with bad intent. | |
| Snot running down his nose -- | |
| greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes. | |
| Drying in the cold sun -- | |
| Watching as the frilly panties run. | |
| Feeling like a dead duck -- | |
| spitting out pieces of his broken luck. | |
| Jethro Tull | |
| Sun streaking cold -- | |
| an old man wandering lonely. | |
| Taking time | |
| the only way he knows. | |
| Leg hurting bad, | |
| as he bends to pick a dog-end -- | |
| he goes down to the bog | |
| and warms his feet. | |
| Feeling alone -- | |
| salvation a la mode and | |
| a cup of tea. | |
| Aqualung my friend -- | |
| don't start away uneasy | |
| you poor old sod, you see, it's only me. | |
| Do you still remember | |
| December's foggy freeze -- | |
| when the ice that | |
| clings on to your beard is | |
| screaming agony. | |
| And you snatch your rattling last breaths | |
| with deep-sea-diver sounds, | |
| and the flowers bloom like | |
| madness in the spring. |
| zuo ci : Anderson, Anderson | |
| Sitting on a park bench | |
| aqualung | |
| eyeing ittle girls with bad intent. | |
| Snot running down his nose | |
| greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes. | |
| Drying in the cold sun | |
| Watching as the frilly panties run. | |
| Feeling like a dead duck | |
| spitting out pieces of his broken luck. | |
| Jethro Tull | |
| Sun streaking cold | |
| an old man wandering lonely. | |
| Taking time | |
| the only way he knows. | |
| Leg hurting bad, | |
| as he bends to pick a dogend | |
| he goes down to the bog | |
| and warms his feet. | |
| Feeling alone | |
| salvation a la mode and | |
| a cup of tea. | |
| Aqualung my friend | |
| don' t start away uneasy | |
| you poor old sod, you see, it' s only me. | |
| Do you still remember | |
| December' s foggy freeze | |
| when the ice that | |
| clings on to your beard is | |
| screaming agony. | |
| And you snatch your rattling last breaths | |
| with deepseadiver sounds, | |
| and the flowers bloom like | |
| madness in the spring. |
| zuò cí : Anderson, Anderson | |
| Sitting on a park bench | |
| aqualung | |
| eyeing ittle girls with bad intent. | |
| Snot running down his nose | |
| greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes. | |
| Drying in the cold sun | |
| Watching as the frilly panties run. | |
| Feeling like a dead duck | |
| spitting out pieces of his broken luck. | |
| Jethro Tull | |
| Sun streaking cold | |
| an old man wandering lonely. | |
| Taking time | |
| the only way he knows. | |
| Leg hurting bad, | |
| as he bends to pick a dogend | |
| he goes down to the bog | |
| and warms his feet. | |
| Feeling alone | |
| salvation a la mode and | |
| a cup of tea. | |
| Aqualung my friend | |
| don' t start away uneasy | |
| you poor old sod, you see, it' s only me. | |
| Do you still remember | |
| December' s foggy freeze | |
| when the ice that | |
| clings on to your beard is | |
| screaming agony. | |
| And you snatch your rattling last breaths | |
| with deepseadiver sounds, | |
| and the flowers bloom like | |
| madness in the spring. |
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