| Song | Armchairs |
| Artist | Andrew Bird |
| Album | Armchair Apocrypha |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作曲 : | |
| I dreamed you were a cosmonaut | |
| Of the space between our chairs | |
| And I was a cartographer | |
| Of the tangles in your hair | |
| I sang the song that silence brings | |
| It's the one that everybody knows, everybody knows | |
| The song that silence sings | |
| And this, this is how it goes | |
| These looms that weave apocrypha | |
| They're hanging from a strand | |
| This dark and empty rooms were full | |
| Of incandescent hands | |
| Awkward pause, the fatal flaw | |
| Time, it's a crooked bow | |
| Time is a crooked bow | |
| Time you need to learn to love | |
| The ebb just like the flow | |
| Grab hold of your bootstraps and pull like hell | |
| Until gravity feels sorry for you and lets you go | |
| As if you lack the proper chemicals to know, oh | |
| The way it felt the last time you let yourself fall this low | |
| Time, time it's a crooked bow | |
| Time's a crooked bow | |
| Time's a crooked bow, oh, ooh | |
| Fifty-five and three-eighths years later | |
| At the bottom of this gigantic crater | |
| An armchair calls to you | |
| Yeah, this armchair calls to you | |
| And it says that someday we'll get back at them all | |
| With epoxy and a pair of pliers | |
| As ancient sea slugs begin to crawl | |
| Through the ragweed and barbed wire, oh | |
| You didn't write, you didn't call | |
| It didn't cross your mind at all, hey | |
| Through the waves, the waves of hay and straw | |
| You couldn't feel a thing at all | |
| Fifty-five and three-eighths, time | |
| Fifty-five and three-eighths time, time |
| zuo qu : | |
| I dreamed you were a cosmonaut | |
| Of the space between our chairs | |
| And I was a cartographer | |
| Of the tangles in your hair | |
| I sang the song that silence brings | |
| It' s the one that everybody knows, everybody knows | |
| The song that silence sings | |
| And this, this is how it goes | |
| These looms that weave apocrypha | |
| They' re hanging from a strand | |
| This dark and empty rooms were full | |
| Of incandescent hands | |
| Awkward pause, the fatal flaw | |
| Time, it' s a crooked bow | |
| Time is a crooked bow | |
| Time you need to learn to love | |
| The ebb just like the flow | |
| Grab hold of your bootstraps and pull like hell | |
| Until gravity feels sorry for you and lets you go | |
| As if you lack the proper chemicals to know, oh | |
| The way it felt the last time you let yourself fall this low | |
| Time, time it' s a crooked bow | |
| Time' s a crooked bow | |
| Time' s a crooked bow, oh, ooh | |
| Fiftyfive and threeeighths years later | |
| At the bottom of this gigantic crater | |
| An armchair calls to you | |
| Yeah, this armchair calls to you | |
| And it says that someday we' ll get back at them all | |
| With epoxy and a pair of pliers | |
| As ancient sea slugs begin to crawl | |
| Through the ragweed and barbed wire, oh | |
| You didn' t write, you didn' t call | |
| It didn' t cross your mind at all, hey | |
| Through the waves, the waves of hay and straw | |
| You couldn' t feel a thing at all | |
| Fiftyfive and threeeighths, time | |
| Fiftyfive and threeeighths time, time |
| zuò qǔ : | |
| I dreamed you were a cosmonaut | |
| Of the space between our chairs | |
| And I was a cartographer | |
| Of the tangles in your hair | |
| I sang the song that silence brings | |
| It' s the one that everybody knows, everybody knows | |
| The song that silence sings | |
| And this, this is how it goes | |
| These looms that weave apocrypha | |
| They' re hanging from a strand | |
| This dark and empty rooms were full | |
| Of incandescent hands | |
| Awkward pause, the fatal flaw | |
| Time, it' s a crooked bow | |
| Time is a crooked bow | |
| Time you need to learn to love | |
| The ebb just like the flow | |
| Grab hold of your bootstraps and pull like hell | |
| Until gravity feels sorry for you and lets you go | |
| As if you lack the proper chemicals to know, oh | |
| The way it felt the last time you let yourself fall this low | |
| Time, time it' s a crooked bow | |
| Time' s a crooked bow | |
| Time' s a crooked bow, oh, ooh | |
| Fiftyfive and threeeighths years later | |
| At the bottom of this gigantic crater | |
| An armchair calls to you | |
| Yeah, this armchair calls to you | |
| And it says that someday we' ll get back at them all | |
| With epoxy and a pair of pliers | |
| As ancient sea slugs begin to crawl | |
| Through the ragweed and barbed wire, oh | |
| You didn' t write, you didn' t call | |
| It didn' t cross your mind at all, hey | |
| Through the waves, the waves of hay and straw | |
| You couldn' t feel a thing at all | |
| Fiftyfive and threeeighths, time | |
| Fiftyfive and threeeighths time, time |