Luyện nghe bài hát Creation or a stain

I got a god in my
Tells me I'm crazy
Got a god in my
me I'm crazy
An little god punching on my skull
Another god
Tells me that I'm
A useless piece of shit with no to give at all now
And the smallest god up
that I'm the greatest
Tells me no one else could be as as me.
I listen to them all, I was a disc jockey to
Little propagandist misery
I a cocoon I got to get away
A shirt made out of wood and glue and crack and then paint(????)
No one see ya there and no one's getting in
I got a needle, a pack, a satchel, and a of country gin
I drink and and smoke until the only voice I hear
Is the one me those other people, don't let anybody near
No don't let near (x4)
And now the telephone is ringing, the are falling down
The birds are singing, my soul's nowhere around
I have made myself a
I have myself again
I have all my children, I have tightened up my skin
I'm a walking crucifixion, I'm a fucked-up
Consumed in all that's left, I'm my misery
I'm on Satan's tit
She's me her pussy

I drink until I'm convinced there's no place to go
You know no place left to go (x4)
So I until the pain is dry
I know it is
Sometimes though, I guess I that I'm the best
Until the morning after when I up with the guilt
Of burning all the things my sacred hands have built
And throwing out all the love you know I never
Yeah, you know I felt (x4)
Let's make our tortured
Personal can be unique
You it on yourself
Burn out when you peak
The Holy Ghost is exiled from your heart and from your
If you control it it's no fun, and if it's fun you've lost
Your past is
your symbols dried up
Your corruption's as
As old that you dug
Like some hidden toxic
Your dissipates
In the ozone of guilty with motive
All the things you
There's bodies dancing,
heat
Crazy in an
The way starving eat
Regrets overwhelms, and tired bodies fall
Bankrupt from the
Let's one more eight-ball
Blue as beggars, beaten,
Tired eyes of rust
And we all know when it gets this there's no one you can trust
No no no one you can trust(x4)
say the solution's locked in the sweat-box
I wouldn't
I've never there, I sold my keys to get a rock
We along to forgotten AM radio stations
And drink expensive wine, toast the friends that we hanging
Like prisoners in
We heard through the
I know for don't trust no one who says' they've got you back
The windows all
Outside the pollution booms
Everyone's now like cockroaches in dark rooms
I've been brought back the dead before, so anything can happen
Obsessed tragic antics, down and out like Eric Clapton
are my wild years, I'm trying to enjoy the pain
The of dying
Toxins wrestle in my
all been leaders of corruption
We've all spiders on the wall
Waiting for a hand to smash us or the doom of light to
Is this guilt of just
wild, uncontained
Leaking a broken soul
Is this or a stain
Is creation or a stain...