Luyện nghe bài hát Flight

Flying
I alway how crazy things are
so sometimes it catches me off my
they make sense.
The line on the road trail the in the sky,
I for the mote in my brother's eye
the pence...
a of blunt instruments.
uncertain when I've woken
or constitutes a conscious mind,
the thought remains unspoken
I I'm flying blind.
Breaking into cold sweat on the white-hot
the pennies from drop through my soul:
it relent.
At the back end of dreams I'm to awake...
I my theories but just can't shake
seventh sense
to there's no defense.
It the time was for action,
it seemed so cool to be kind...
my tongue writhed to some retraction
but I
I was blind.
I things to be fast, down to the power-drive;
I want the zero-gravity heroes to dead,
but alive.
We want it to be slow, all the way to
we talk a thousand things that never change at all.
No, it change...
It was then that I knew I'd been -
something had slipped my
I'd strapped myself into the
but the was flying blind.
We got full clearance, so down there
to know the truth of our disappearance -
If even that still shows it accuses and me,
but was quite what it seemed.
Sometimes things out so strangely
it might as well all be dreamed.
The Cane Fandango
The White Cane in Morse code,
try to through the message,
shake the
venial sin, running on the spot -
till the begins.
Where does a man go when the cramp?
Try to write out a postcard on a postage
with a drawing pin out the Braille
for the within?
the contango on your future stock;
paying backwardation, onto what you've got -
a sideways grin! Some day you may need
to trade in.
If we ride right
the future fall in our hands.
If we the flight
the future will out -
nothing's black and white.

The colour-coded are spread,
but we're still gliding deep the red,
the is dead
every valve open.
The radar screen monochrome,
air traffic controller to get on home,

for a call
to him from responsibility.
goes to see him any more
except for the man the ministry.
He to be, he wanted to be
the man at the helm, in command of the
flying a chair, quite beyond control;
he's to have just one more chance
at a roll.
All in a dream, all as a dream,
the colours too bright, the music too -
the world has just begun to show.
These words I offer...
but I don't know.
Cool blue the colour gun -
oh in, come in number one:
your nearly run.
the frame,
the present and the past fast...
It's too fast, the don't,
the won't,
the don't last.

The rolling dice clash together never up the score;
that old device, the ejector seat, to the floor.
Everybody waits for everyone to a show -
no-one wants to be the first, admitting they know
how that's gone down here
could fit into an groove...
W
ait for the move,
wait for action we all can approve.
Too much to drink, for the cup down to the sea;
too to think, the barometer pressuring me.
Rolling down the for an Easter parade,
reeling out the Maydays in the hope of saved,
but the radio out giving blood -
no, no, no, not listening.
The cricketer his "Wisden",
the has got his "Jane's",
but the sum of factual wisdom
don't help us to fly the
(no, and it will...)
Beneath the tartan two-piece rips undone...
Wait for the to run
wait for the snake the ladder becomes.
A passenger hits the cockpit, willing to chance his
pulls out his gun and it
in the hope that it all change. (oh, but it never will...)
A fly-leaf from the library shows have been here before,
tried, and kicked out the door;
the aircrew don't care -
not they wait
for the of the silk-worm wing,
wait for the heat to come on us
- full of the law.
Silk-Worm
force of gravity pulls me down,
I'll be off out of there;
aerobatic around,
I'll take my in the open air.
silk-worm wings
or Candle to the ground,
there's one thing for shure:
when the balloon up
the aeronaut down.
He say is quite what it seems,
he say nothing is quite it seems;
I say is nothing.
A Box
Softly, the angels sing their and space refrain:
there's something in everything if you can pin down its name
Aerobatic thoughts at the of my mind -
Is it nothing but the looping we all follow?
but the spiral twist of DNA
There'll be no looking back tomorrow on today.
So the is tripped, split-seconds defect to their successors;
the cord is ripped -
we all are in free fall.
I stall where I am, as if to see where been:
only running down the line we all follow,
only chasing the spiral twist of DNA -
There can be no looking on to from today.
Life/death/night/day - cold breath surely fly away.
Is the empire of sensation in a black box
deep in me, there somehow?
It the imagination to fly on a wing and a prayer
through my
- is how it is?
There'll be no looking on this...
this is now, which will be -
is this the means? All I know for is
is the end.
No looking from tomorrow,
no, be no looking back on today;
better be on to tomorrow...
better on today.
All by Peter Hammill
Published by Hit and Run Music Ltd.
by permission.
S-type records, 55-59 Ave., London W.I.
by Jet
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