Luyện nghe bài hát A Louse Is Not A Home

Sometimes it's very scary sometimes it's very sad;
sometimes I think I'll disappear; I think I have.
There's a line down my mirror :
splintered glass my face,
and though the is strong and strange
it can't the musty corners of this place.
There is a lofty, lonely, Lohengrenic castle in the --
I my murky meanings there,
but seven years' dark is just around the corner
and in the shadows the spectre of Despair.
A cracked mirror mid the drapes of the :
split image, labored ----
I'm trying to find a place to hide my home ....
lived in houses composed of glass
where movement is charted,
but now the monitor are dark
and I can't tell if silent are there.
My words are spiders the page,
they spin out faith, hope and reason
but are they and just, or only dust
gathering about my
Sometimes I get the feeling there's
else there :
The faceless makes me uneasy,
I can him through the floorboards,
and His presence is ----
He informs me I shall be expelled ....
What is that but out of and :
I don't the nature of the door that I'd go through,
I don't know the of the nature
that I am ....
I've lived in of brick and lead
where all is sacred,
and if you want to devour the
you must sniff at the fragrance
and lay body before the shrine
with and posies and papers ----
or, if you the ruse, you'll have to choose
to stay, a monk, or leave, a vagrant.
is this place you call home?
Is it a or a confession?
Is it the chalice you use for protection?
Is it really only you can stay?
Is it a or a lecture?
Is it a beating at the hands of your
Does the idol feet of clay?
is what you make it, so my friends
all say,
but I rarely see their homes in dark days.
Some of them are snails and carry
on their
others live in which, one day,
be racks --
I keep my home in place with
and tin-tacks,
but I feel there's some other Force here :
He who the mirrors and moves the walls
keeps through the eye-slits of the portraits
in my
He my library and taps the telephone --
I've never actually Him,
but I He's in my home
and if he away,
I stay here either.
I believe -- er -- I --
well, I know ......
I live in one room at a time,
but all of the are ears, all the windows, eyes :
Everything is foreign,
'Home' is my wordless :
mmmmmaah!
it a chance!
I am surrounded by and bone,
I am a of living,
I am a hermit, I am a drone,
and I am out a place to be.
With secret garlands my head
unearthly silence is :
the room is dark, and in the stark light
I can see a I know ----
this be the guy who never shows
the cracked mirror he's feeling,
merely mumbles prayers to the ground
he's :
"Home is home is is home is home is home is me!"
All you people looking for houses,
don't throw your around, you might
your glasses
and if you do, you you just can't see
and then how are you to the dawning
of the
--- Day is just a word I use to the dark
at bay,
and people are imaginary, else exists
except the room I'm in,
and, of course, the all-pervading ---
sometimes I wonder if that's real ....
Maybe I should this place;
Maybe I should de-place this
Maybe I'll maybe my away
in the of this silent house.
Sometimes it's very scary here; sometimes it's very
sometimes I think I'll disappear; sometimes I ..... "