Luyện nghe bài hát 1957

I saw the best minds of my destroyed.
of conviction, conflicted, annoyed.
Kicked at and down. 6 6 6.
Beat. Looking for the quick fix.
Unpopular prophets with
Up against angels in who want to rob them;
Who didnt want to end up crushed by embrace
In the age of the cold blowing and dogs in space;
Whos are fading. Theyre the loneliest drunk.
In rooms haunted by Thelonious Monk.
punks and plate glass squares
That see empty eyes that look past theirs.
Street walking cheetahs a gun in each hand
Who are lost at sea and are to reach land.
descending. Swimming in the crooked waters.
Hello Sid Vicious, Brooklyn Dodgers...

No joke. Hit the low note.
We all go to in a little row boat.

1957 Bel Air. Interior velvet especially.
Bloody probably. Stereo: Holly, Elvis Presley.
Black Trilogy. Quadruple louder bass.
Battle sites. Little Rock. in outer space
Words help but a few bucks can.
Crew cuts and leather. Ku Klux Klan.
Men hats. In fact, harems are shared.
Opiates addicted to and scared.
The underground is real. Delivered greens to queens.
motion of free-thinkers and libertines.
Who suffer all night with pains
Hooked on drums and who with chains.
Its and Baldwin. Insult and curse reality.
Spy vs. spy and the of personality.
can the numbers and the words in my head mean?
Killroy was here and so was Buster and Ed Gein.

No joke. Hit the low note.
We all go to in a little row boat.

The pen moving in attempt to sink the jingoes.
Fight em with hula hoops, frisbees and flamingoes.
Up all night. Late sleep ordered.
Have gun will travel. Great forward.
Man on the corner with dark free and preaching.
Appetite is monstrous. is Dionysian.
All the world, so much peril in one show.

Playwright Arthur Miller marries Monroe.
Hard rain falling. Babies sleeping in palms.
Alarm clocks ringing. monks and bomb squads.
Invasion Of The Body Snatchers. and mediums.
in nothing. Speed freaks and bohemians.
Red is the new black. files.
Rebels and dragons. Obscenity trials.
and Bobby Fisher country. No part is red,
Just and white. Humphrey Bogart is dead.

No joke. Hit the low note.
We all go to heaven in a row boat.