Luyện nghe bài hát Flight

Flying
I forget how crazy things are
so it catches me off my guard
when they sense.
The on the road trail the arrow in the sky,
I search for the mote in my eye
the pence...
a time of instruments.
Still uncertain I've woken
or what a conscious mind,
the thought remains unspoken
I know I'm blind.
Breaking into cold sweat on the coals
the pennies from drop through my soul:
it relent.
At the back end of dreams I'm to awake...
I offer my theories but just can't
that sense
to which no defense.
It seemed the was for action,
it so cool to be that kind...
my tongue to form some retraction
but I
I was blind.
I want things to be fast, down to the
I want the zero-gravity to play dead,
but alive.
We it to be slow, all the way to stall;
we talk about a thousand things that never at all.
No, it change...
It was then that I knew I'd thoughtless -
something had my mind:
I'd strapped myself the Fortress
but the Fortress was blind.
We got full clearance, so down there
to know the truth of our disappearance -
If even that shows it accuses and blames me,
but was quite what it seemed.
things work out so strangely
that it might as all be dreamed.
The White Cane
The Cane Fandango in Morse code,
try to shake the message,
shake the
only venial sin, on the spot -
the dance begins.
Where does a man go the muscles cramp?
Try to write out a postcard on a postage
with a drawing pin punching out the
for the within?
Upset the contango on future stock;
paying backwardation, hold what you've got -
such a sideways grin! day you may need
to that in.
If we ride this
the will fall in our hands.
If we survive the
the future will out -
that black and white.

The charts are spread,
but still gliding deep into the red,
the radio is
every valve open.
The screen flicks monochrome,
air controller wants to get on home,

for a phone
to release him 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 of the flightpath;
flying a chair, quite beyond control;
he's going to just one more chance
at a roll.
All in a dream, all as a dream,
the too bright, the music too deafening -
the world has just begun to show.
These words I offer...
but I don't know.
blue suffuse the colour gun -
oh come in, come in number
your time's run.
the frame,
the present and the hold fast...
too fast, the thing don't,
the won't,
the don't last.

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