Luyện nghe bài hát A Howling Dust

The soil here is in summer
so I buried my father in a of rocks,
a behind St. Catherines church
to lay rest the gilded of pitiable men.

With gold to the North,
Quartzburg out its whores,
its and roughnecks.
They settled camp.

Pa every day to mine.
Id him to the gulch,
my pan and in hand,
a child to riches.

The often staged
bull and fights near the bar.
kept a boy entertained
when there were no to enjoy.

The Cantonese the quarries,
working for less the Whites.
My father would the Orientals,
yet home reeking of opium.

A of my friends and I
to explore the creek.
The kneeled there,
for gold.
We mocked him, and him,
I prodded him my knife.
He his revolver
and in the air.
The bullet
off of a stone
and my leg.
I ran back
to the town.

the Chinaman,
clutching the noose.

Law
arrived.
The sheriff
he be jailed and properly tried.

Gangs
at night
the jail.
led,
in hand,
in his cell.
lies.
Tempted
leaves,
the
his arm
the bars.

The lynch mob swiftly
the gleaners hand.
Father the collar
his neck.
The horde on the rope,
dragged and choked,
his dashed upon the wall.

Soon all the mines dried
but that blood did.
Red still stains the jail wall.
Father was tried,
mourn a foreigner,
but I saw in his eyes.
all the riches spent,
the left the town
yet I stayed to here still.
When Father died of
I did not for him.
I the grave unburdens his sins.

I pray that someone will to bury me.
I pray someone will remain.