Luyện nghe bài hát Flight

Flying
I alway forget how crazy are
so it catches me off my guard
when make sense.
The line on the trail the arrow in the sky,
I search for the mote in my 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 heaven drop through my soul:
it relent.
At the end of dreams I'm amazed to awake...
I offer my theories but can't shake
seventh sense
to which no defense.
It seemed the was for action,
it so cool to be that kind...
my tongue writhed to form some
but I
I was blind.
I things 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 talk about a thousand things that never at all.
No, it change...
It was then that I knew I'd thoughtless -
something had slipped my
I'd strapped myself into the
but the Fortress was blind.
We got full clearance, so down there
to know the truth of our disappearance -
If even that still shows it accuses and me,
but nothing was what it seemed.
Sometimes work out so strangely
that it might as all be dreamed.
The White Cane
The White Cane in Morse code,
try to through the message,
shake the
venial sin, running on the spot -
till the begins.
does a man go when the muscles cramp?
Try to write out a on a postage stamp
with a pin punching out the Braille
for the within?
Upset the contango on your stock;
paying backwardation, hold 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 colour-coded are spread,
but we're still deep into the red,
the is dead
valve blown open.
The screen flicks monochrome,
air controller wants to get on home,

for a phone
to release him responsibility.
Nobody goes to see him any
except for the man the ministry.
He wanted to be, he to be
the man at the helm, in of the flightpath;
flying a chair, quite beyond control;
he's going to have just one chance
at a roll.
All in a dream, all as a dream,
the colours too bright, the too deafening -
the black-out world has just to show.
These words I offer...
but I still know.
Cool blue suffuse the gun -
oh come in, come in number
your 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 clash together never make up the score;
old device, the ejector 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 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 down 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 ham's out blood -
no, no, no, not listening.
The knows 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 two-piece something undone...
for the ladder to run
wait for the that the ladder becomes.
A passenger hits the cockpit, willing to chance his
out his gun and cocks it
in the that it all might change. (oh, but it never will...)
A fly-leaf from the library shows others have been before,
tried, failed and kicked out the
the don't care anymore -
not they wait
for the beat of the wing,
wait for the heat to come on us
- full of the law.
Silk-Worm
Full of gravity pulls me down,
I'll be better off out of
spin around,
I'll my chances in the open air.
silk-worm wings
or Roman to the ground,
there's only one for shure:
the balloon goes up
the aeronaut down.
He say nothing is quite it seems,
he say nothing is what it seems;
I say is nothing.
A Box
Softly, the angels sing their and space refrain:
there's something in if you can only pin down its name
Aerobatic at the back of my mind -
Is it nothing but the line we all follow?
Nothing but the spiral of DNA
There'll be no back from tomorrow on today.
So the wire is tripped, split-seconds to their successors;
the umbilical is ripped -
we all are in free fall.
I stall I am, as if to see where I've been:
only running the looping line we all follow,
chasing down the spiral twist of DNA -
There can be no on to tomorrow from today.
Life/death/night/day - breath will surely fly away.
Is the of sensation locked in a black box
deep in me, there somehow?
It fires the to fly on a wing and a prayer
through my
- is how it is?
be no looking back on this...
this is now, which be then -
is the means? All I know for shure is
is the end.
No looking from tomorrow,
no, be no looking back on today;
be looking on to tomorrow...
better on today.
All lyrics by Peter
by Hit and Run Music Publishing Ltd.
by permission.
S-type records, 55-59 Ave., London W.I.
by Jet
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