Luyện nghe bài hát Flight

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

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

for a call
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 command of the
flying a chair, quite beyond control;
he's going to have 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 cracked-out I offer...
but I still know.
blue suffuse the colour gun -
oh come in, in number one:
your nearly run.
the frame,
the present and the hold fast...
It's too fast, the 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 make a -
wants to be the first, admitting that they know
how that's gone down here
fit into an analytic groove...
W
ait for the move,
wait for action we all can approve.
Too much to drink, for the cup reaches down to the
too much to think, the barometer me.
Rolling down the weather for an parade,
out the Maydays in the hope 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
don't help us to fly the
(no, and it will...)
Beneath the tartan something rips undone...
for the ladder to run
wait for the snake the ladder becomes.
A hits the cockpit, willing to chance his game:
out his gun and cocks it
in the hope that it all change. (oh, but it never will...)
A fly-leaf from the library others have been here before,
tried, failed and out the door;
the aircrew don't care -
not just wait
for the of the silk-worm wing,
wait for the to come down on us
- full of the law.
Silk-Worm
Full of gravity pulls me down,
be better off out of there;
aerobatic around,
I'll take my chances in the air.
Sycamore wings
or Roman to the ground,
only one thing for shure:
when the goes up
the aeronaut down.
He say nothing is what it seems,
he say is quite what it seems;
I say is nothing.
A Box
Softly, the angels sing time and space refrain:
there's something in everything if you can pin down its name
Aerobatic thoughts at the back of my -
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, split-seconds defect to their
the cord is ripped -
we all are in free fall.
I where I am, as if to see where I've been:
only running down the looping we all follow,
only chasing down the twist of DNA -
There can be no on to tomorrow from today.
Life/death/night/day - cold breath will fly away.
Is the empire of sensation in a black box
in me, encoded there somehow?
It the imagination to fly on a wing and a prayer
through my
- is how it is?
There'll be no back on this...
is now, which will be then -
is this the means? All I know for is
is the end.
No looking back tomorrow,
no, there'll be no back on today;
better be on to tomorrow...
better on today.
All lyrics by Hammill
Published by Hit and Run Publishing Ltd.
by permission.
S-type records, 55-59 Ave., London W.I.
by Jet
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