Luyện nghe bài hát An Old Scab

I sit each morning, at my empty notebook
The room is quiet, the air sounds like rain falling
Manic-depressive composer Robert Schumann, he could not write
He'd get down on his and he would pray for help

not as bad as eating your own liver but still
I'd like to think that there are better

I try to tackle the page that lay me but then I drift off
And think the concept of Ben Wah balls, I rouse myself
And I finish washing dishes, make lists of
Make all my phone calls and I pray for help

But time I try to make a fresh stab
I end up just at an old scab