Luyện nghe bài hát Flight

Flying
I alway forget how things are
so sometimes it catches me off my
when they sense.
The on the road trail the arrow in the sky,
I search for the mote in my eye
the pence...
a of blunt instruments.
Still uncertain I've woken
or what a conscious mind,
though the remains unspoken
I know I'm blind.
Breaking cold sweat on the white-hot coals
the pennies from heaven drop my soul:
it relent.
At the back end of dreams I'm to awake...
I offer my theories but just shake
that sense
to there's no defense.
It the time was for action,
it seemed so cool to be kind...
my tongue writhed to form some
but I
I was blind.
I want things to be fast, to the power-drive;
I want the heroes to play dead,
but alive.
We want it to be slow, all the way to
we talk about a thousand things that never at all.
No, it change...
It was then that I I'd been thoughtless -
had slipped my mind:
I'd strapped myself into the
but the was flying blind.
We got full clearance, so down there
ought to the truth of our disappearance -
If even that still it accuses and blames me,
but nothing was quite it seemed.
things work out so strangely
that it as well all be dreamed.
The Cane Fandango
The White Cane in Morse code,
try to through the message,
the load;
only sin, running on the spot -
the dance begins.
Where does a man go when the cramp?
Try to write out a on a postage stamp
a drawing pin punching out the Braille
for the within?
Upset the 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 this
the will fall in our hands.
If we survive the
the future will out -
nothing's black and white.

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

for a phone
to release him responsibility.
Nobody goes to see him any
for the man from the ministry.
He wanted to be, he to be
the man at the helm, in command of the
he's flying a chair, quite beyond
he's going to have just one more
at a roll.
All in a dream, all as a dream,
the too bright, the music too deafening -
the black-out world has begun to show.
These words I offer...
but I don't know.
blue suffuse the colour gun -
oh come in, in number one:
your time's 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;
that old device, the seat, glued to the floor.
Everybody waits for everyone to make a -
no-one to be the first, admitting that they know
how anythings gone 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 reaches to the sea;
too to think, the barometer pressuring me.
Rolling down the weather for an parade,
reeling out the in the hope of being saved,
but the radio ham's out blood -
no, no, no, not listening.
The knows 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 something undone...
for the ladder to run
wait for the snake that the becomes.
A passenger hits the cockpit, willing to chance his
pulls out his gun and it
in the that it all might change. (oh, but it never will...)
A fly-leaf from the library others have been here before,
tried, and kicked out the door;
the aircrew don't care -
not they just
for the beat of the wing,
wait for the to come down on us
- force of the law.
Wings
Full of gravity pulls me down,
I'll be better off out of
spin around,
I'll take my chances in the air.
Sycamore wings
or Candle to the ground,
there's 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 angels their time and space 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?
Nothing but the spiral of DNA
be no looking back from tomorrow on today.
So the wire is tripped, split-seconds defect to their
the cord is ripped -
here we all are in fall.
I stall where I am, as if to see I've been:
running down the looping line we all follow,
only down the spiral twist of DNA -
There can be no looking on to from today.
Life/death/night/day - cold breath will fly away.
Is the of sensation locked in a black box
deep in me, there somehow?
It the imagination to fly on a wing and a prayer
my life
- 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 back from tomorrow,
no, there'll be no looking on today;
be looking on to tomorrow...
better on today.
All lyrics by Peter
Published by Hit and Run Publishing Ltd.
by permission.
S-type records, 55-59 Ave., London W.I.
by Jet
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