Luyện nghe bài hát Flight

Flying
I alway forget how things are
so sometimes it catches me off my
when make sense.
The line on the road the arrow in the sky,
I search for the in my brother's eye
the pence...
a time of instruments.
Still uncertain when woken
or what constitutes a mind,
the thought remains unspoken
I know I'm blind.
Breaking into cold sweat on the white-hot
the pennies from heaven drop through my
it relent.
At the end of dreams I'm amazed to awake...
I offer my theories but just shake
that seventh
to there's no defense.
It seemed the was for action,
it seemed so to be that kind...
my tongue writhed to some retraction
but I
I was blind.
I want to be fast, down to the power-drive;
I want the zero-gravity heroes to dead,
but alive.
We it to be slow, all the way to stall;
we about 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 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 accuses and me,
but nothing was quite it seemed.
Sometimes things 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
venial sin, running on the spot -
till the begins.
Where does a man go when the cramp?
Try to out a postcard on a postage stamp
with a pin punching out the Braille
for the within?
Upset the on your future stock;
backwardation, hold onto what you've got -
such a sideways grin! Some day you may
to trade in.
If we ride right
the future fall in our hands.
If we survive the
the will work out -
that black and white.

The charts are spread,
but we're gliding deep into the red,
the radio is
every valve open.
The radar flicks monochrome,
air traffic controller to get on home,

for a phone
to him from responsibility.
goes to see him any more
except for the man the ministry.
He wanted to be, he to be
the man at the helm, in of the flightpath;
he's a chair, quite beyond control;
going 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 cracked-out I offer...
but I don't know.
blue suffuse the colour gun -
oh in, come in number one:
time's 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 seat, glued to the floor.
Everybody for everyone to make a show -
no-one wants to be the first, admitting that know
how anythings that's gone down
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 to the sea;
too much to think, the pressuring me.
Rolling the weather for an Easter parade,
out the Maydays in the hope of being saved,
but the radio out giving blood -
no, no, no, not listening.
The knows his "Wisden",
the has got his "Jane's",
but the sum of factual wisdom
help us to fly the plane
(no, and it will...)
the tartan two-piece something rips undone...
Wait for the to run
wait for the snake that the becomes.
A hits the cockpit, willing to chance his game:
pulls out his gun and it
in the hope it all might change. (oh, but it never will...)
A fly-leaf from the library shows others have here before,
tried, failed and kicked out the
the aircrew don't care -
not they wait
for the beat of the wing,
for the heat to come down on us
- full of the law.
Wings
Full force of gravity 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 balloon up
the calm down.
He say is quite what it seems,
he say nothing is what it seems;
I say is nothing.
A Box
Softly, the sing their time and space refrain:
there's something in everything if you can only pin down its
Aerobatic thoughts at the back of my -
Is it nothing but the line we all follow?
Nothing but the spiral of DNA
be no looking back from tomorrow on today.
So the wire is tripped, split-seconds to their successors;
the cord is ripped -
here we all are in fall.
I stall where I am, as if to see where I've
only running down the line we all follow,
only down the spiral twist of DNA -
There can be no on to tomorrow from today.
- cold breath will surely fly away.
Is the empire of locked in a black box
in me, encoded there somehow?
It fires the imagination to fly on a wing and a
through my
- is how it is?
be no looking back on this...
this is now, which will be -
is this the means? All I for shure is
is the end.
No looking back tomorrow,
no, there'll be no looking back on
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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