Luyện nghe bài hát Flight

Flying
I alway how crazy things are
so it catches me off my guard
when they 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 I've woken
or constitutes a conscious mind,
though the thought unspoken
I know I'm blind.
Breaking into cold sweat on the coals
the from heaven drop through my soul:
it relent.
At the back end of I'm amazed to awake...
I offer my theories but just can't
that sense
to which no defense.
It the time 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, to the power-drive;
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 change at all.
No, it change...
It was then that I knew I'd thoughtless -
something had slipped my
I'd strapped myself the Fortress
but the was flying blind.
We got full clearance, so someone down
ought to the truth of our disappearance -
If even still shows it accuses and blames me,
but nothing was what it seemed.
Sometimes work out so strangely
it might as well all be dreamed.
The White Fandango
The White Cane in Morse code,
try to shake the message,
the load;
only venial sin, running on the -
the dance begins.
Where does a man go the muscles cramp?
Try to write out a postcard on a stamp
a drawing pin punching out the Braille
for the whole
Upset the contango on future stock;
paying backwardation, hold onto you've got -
such a grin! Some day you may need
to trade in.
If we ride this
the will fall in our hands.
If we the flight
the future work out -
that black and white.

The colour-coded are spread,
but we're still gliding deep the red,
the radio is
every blown open.
The screen flicks 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 wanted to be, he to be
the man at the helm, in command of the
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.
Cool suffuse the colour gun -
oh in, come in number one:
time's nearly run.
the frame,
the and the past hold fast...
too fast, the thing don't,
the won't,
the thing last.

The rolling dice clash never make up the score;
that old device, the ejector seat, to the floor.
Everybody waits for to make a show -
wants to be the first, admitting that they know
how anythings that's down here
could fit into an groove...
W
ait for the move,
for some 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 weather for an parade,
reeling out the Maydays in the hope of saved,
but the radio ham's out blood -
no, no, no, not listening.
The cricketer his "Wisden",
the has got his "Jane's",
but the sum of this factual
don't us to fly the plane
(no, and it will...)
Beneath the tartan two-piece rips undone...
Wait for the 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 shows others have been before,
tried, and kicked out the door;
the aircrew care anymore -
not they just
for the of the silk-worm wing,
wait for the heat to come on us
- force of the law.
Wings
Full of gravity pulls me down,
be better off out of there;
aerobatic around,
I'll take my chances in the 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 sing their time and refrain:
there's something in everything if you can only pin down its
thoughts at the back of my mind -
Is it nothing but the 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 cord is ripped -
here we all are in 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 spiral of DNA -
can be no looking on to tomorrow from today.
Life/death/night/day - cold will surely fly away.
Is the of sensation locked 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...
this is now, which will be -
is this the means? All I for shure is
is the end.
No looking from tomorrow,
no, there'll be no looking back on
better be on to tomorrow...
think on today.
All lyrics by Peter
Published by Hit and Run Publishing Ltd.
by permission.
S-type records, Shaftsbury Ave., London W.I.
by Jet
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