Luyện nghe bài hát A Louse Is Not A Home

Sometimes it's very scary here; it's very sad;
I think I'll disappear; betimes I think I have.
There's a snaking down my mirror :
glass distorts my face,
and though the light is strong and
it can't illuminate the musty corners of place.
There is a lofty, lonely, Lohengrenic castle in the --
I draw my murky there,
but seven years' dark is just around the corner
and in the lurks the spectre of Despair.
A cracked mirror mid the drapes of the :
split image, labored understanding
I'm only trying to a place to hide my home ....
I've lived in houses of glass
where movement is charted,
but now the monitor screens are
and I can't if silent eyes are there.
My are spiders upon the page,
they spin out faith, hope and ----
but are meet and just, or only dust
about my chair?
Sometimes I get the that there's
else there :
The faceless makes me uneasy,
I can him through the floorboards,
and His presence is ----
He informs me that I shall be ....
What is but out of and into :
I know the nature of the door that I'd go through,
I don't the nature of the nature
that I am ....
lived in houses of brick and lead
where all is sacred,
and if you want to devour the
you must first at the fragrance
and lay your body the shrine
with poems and and papers ----
or, if you spot the ruse, have to choose
to stay, a monk, or leave, a vagrant.
What is this place you home?
Is it a or a confession?
Is it the chalice that you use for
Is it really only somewhere you can
Is it a rule-book or a
Is it a beating at the hands of your
the idol have feet of clay?
Home is what you make it, so my
all say,
but I rarely see their homes in these days.
Some of them are snails and carry
on backs;
live in monuments which, one day,
will be --
I keep my home in with sellotape
and tin-tacks,
but I still feel some other Force here :
He who the mirrors and moves the walls
keeps staring through the eye-slits of the
in my
He my library and taps the telephone --
I've never actually Him,
but I know in my home
and if he away,
I stay here either.
I believe -- er -- I --
well, I don't ......
I live in one room at a time,
but all of the are ears, all the windows, eyes :
else 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 boning out a to be.
secret garlands about my head
unearthly silence is :
the room is growing dark, and in the stark
I can see a I know ----
could this be the guy who never
the mirror what he's feeling,
merely mumbles prayers to the ground
he's :
"Home is home is home is home is 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 how are you to find the dawning
of the
--- Day is just a word I use to keep the
at bay,
and people are imaginary, nothing exists
except the room I'm in,
and, of course, the all-pervading ---
I wonder if even that's real ....
Maybe I should this place;
Maybe I de-place this louse;
Maybe I'll maybe my life
in the confines of this house.
it's very scary here; sometimes it's very sad;
sometimes I I'll disappear; sometimes I think ..... "