Death Cab For Cutie Album

(Gibbard)

I remember when the days were long
And the nights when the living room was on the lawn:
Constant quarrelling, the childish fits,
And our clothes in a pile on the ottoman;
All the slander and doublespeak
Were only foolish attempts to show you did not mean
Anything but the blatant proof
Was your lips touching mine in a photobooth.

And as the summer's ending,
The cold air will rush your hard heart away
You were so condescending:
And this is all that's left.
Scraping paper to document
I've packed a change of clothes and it's time to move on.

Cup your mouth to compress the sound,
Skinny-dipping with the kids from a nearby town,
everything that I said was true
As the flashes blinded us in the photobooth.
I lost track and then those words were said,
You took the wheel and you steered us into my bed.
Soon we woke and I walked you home
And it was pretty clear that it was hardly love.

And as the summers ending
The cold air will rush your hard heart away
You were so condescending:
And this is all that's left
Scraping paper to document
I've packed a change of clothes and it's time to move
on

And as the summers ending
The cold air will rush your hard heart away
You were so condescending:
As the alcohol drained the days

And as the summers ending,
The cold air will rush your hard heart away
You were so condescending:
And this is all that's left.
The empty bottles, spent cigarettes

(Gibbard)

Technicolor girls
Are always on the phone
Talking about their homes
And their conversations continue endlessly.

Technicolor boys: transistor radios
Blasting their treble tones
And the arguments are disputed after school
In the parking lot as the teachers bend the rules.

Patiently you waited for a courting boy's embrace
And then everyone would know,
But the letter jacket wasn't yours to own
And it proves to be on the temporary loan.

And as they all grow older the truth will be understood

(Gibbard)

Photographs of the best time you had,
Windows smuged by the speed,
Leaving home with our bags from Iron Street as the morning turned into
California.
And smoke trailed from the butt of my cigarette,
Our glass house it threw rocks at all those it passed.

Waking up to the sound of 5 am to take my turn at the wheel, climbed up Shasta
Oh how the engine ached as the sun toturned California.
And old alleys tugged deep at the heart of me,
Murals of heroes defacing the blank concrete.

Vision tunnled: mission street hunger beat - lodged out as the engine wheezd,

Still moving regardless of stable ground - and this stable ground.

Photographs of the best time you had,
Windows smuged by the speed,

I took the 405 and drilled a stake down into your center, and stated that it's
never ever been better than this. I hung my favorite shirt on the floorboard,
wrinkled up from pulling pushing tasting.
you keep twisting the truth that keeps me thrown askew.
misguided by the 405 'cause it lead me to an alcoholic summer. I missed the exit
to your parents' house hours ago. red wine and the cigarettes: hide your bad

synapse to synapse: the possibility's thin. I'm dressed up for free drinks and
family greetings on your wedding date. the figures in plastic on the wedding
cake that I took were so real. and I kept a distance: the complications cloud
the postcards and blips through fiberoptics, as the girls with the pigtails were
running from little boys wearing bowties their parent bought: "I'll catch you
this time!"
crashing through the parlor doors, what was your first reaction? screaming,
drunk, disorderly: I'll tell you mine. you were the one but I can't spit it out
when the date's been set. the white routine to be ingested inaccurately.
synapse to synapse: the sneaky kids had attached beer cans to the bumper so they
could drive up and down the main drag. people would turn to see who's making the
racket. it's not the first time. when they lay down the fish will swim upstream
and I'll contest but they won't listen when the casualty rate's near 100%, and
there isn't a pension for second best or for hardly moving...
crashing through the parlor doors, what was your first reaction? screaming,
drunk, disorderly: I'll tell you mine. you were the one but I can't spit it out