| Song | Gold Fronts |
| Artist | Portugal. The Man |
| Album | Waiter: "You Vultures" |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作曲 : Gourley | |
| The sun bent down and spoke with the last of the lips | |
| They spoke of hell and things they'd never miss | |
| Bridge shelter and the cold creek bed | |
| That breaks backs and leads eyes down | |
| Until faces drag against the dirt and ears living in that muddy sound | |
| Where the white whales roll just once a year | |
| And the arm feeds the hatchet with an | |
| African appetite | |
| Matched machetes sparkle shine | |
| And shape that small-scale guillotine | |
| I’ve been getting pretty sleeping in these boxes | |
| With those blackened mule faces outside my door | |
| Shouting Oooohhhhh | |
| The club met the seal and the seal met the dog | |
| That carried the man to the end of the trail | |
| Where they walked down the streets pavement | |
| Was black beneath their feet | |
| I have been having a little trouble with these black glass lungs | |
| And dealing in the man with the gold tooth grin |
| zuo qu : Gourley | |
| The sun bent down and spoke with the last of the lips | |
| They spoke of hell and things they' d never miss | |
| Bridge shelter and the cold creek bed | |
| That breaks backs and leads eyes down | |
| Until faces drag against the dirt and ears living in that muddy sound | |
| Where the white whales roll just once a year | |
| And the arm feeds the hatchet with an | |
| African appetite | |
| Matched machetes sparkle shine | |
| And shape that smallscale guillotine | |
| I' ve been getting pretty sleeping in these boxes | |
| With those blackened mule faces outside my door | |
| Shouting Oooohhhhh | |
| The club met the seal and the seal met the dog | |
| That carried the man to the end of the trail | |
| Where they walked down the streets pavement | |
| Was black beneath their feet | |
| I have been having a little trouble with these black glass lungs | |
| And dealing in the man with the gold tooth grin |
| zuò qǔ : Gourley | |
| The sun bent down and spoke with the last of the lips | |
| They spoke of hell and things they' d never miss | |
| Bridge shelter and the cold creek bed | |
| That breaks backs and leads eyes down | |
| Until faces drag against the dirt and ears living in that muddy sound | |
| Where the white whales roll just once a year | |
| And the arm feeds the hatchet with an | |
| African appetite | |
| Matched machetes sparkle shine | |
| And shape that smallscale guillotine | |
| I' ve been getting pretty sleeping in these boxes | |
| With those blackened mule faces outside my door | |
| Shouting Oooohhhhh | |
| The club met the seal and the seal met the dog | |
| That carried the man to the end of the trail | |
| Where they walked down the streets pavement | |
| Was black beneath their feet | |
| I have been having a little trouble with these black glass lungs | |
| And dealing in the man with the gold tooth grin |