Luyện nghe bài hát Flight

Flying
I alway forget how things are
so it catches me off my guard
they make sense.
The on the road 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 constitutes a mind,
though the thought 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 back end of I'm amazed to awake...
I offer my theories but can't shake
that seventh
to which no defense.
It the time was for action,
it seemed so to be that kind...
my tongue writhed to form retraction
but I
I was blind.
I want things to be fast, 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 that never change at all.
No, it change...
It was then I knew I'd been thoughtless -
something had my mind:
I'd strapped myself into the
but the Fortress was blind.
We got full clearance, so someone down
to know the truth of our disappearance -
If even that still it accuses and blames me,
but nothing was quite it seemed.
Sometimes things work out so
that it might as all be dreamed.
The White Cane
The White Cane in Morse code,
try to shake the message,
the load;
only venial sin, on the spot -
the dance begins.
Where does a man go when the cramp?
Try to write out a postcard on a postage
with a pin punching out the Braille
for the within?
Upset the contango on your future
paying backwardation, hold onto what got -
such a sideways grin! Some day you may
to trade in.
If we ride this
the will fall in our hands.
If we the flight
the future will out -
that black and white.

The charts are spread,
but still gliding deep into the red,
the radio is
every blown open.
The screen flicks monochrome,
air controller wants to get on home,

for a call
to him from responsibility.
Nobody to see him any more
for the man from the ministry.
He wanted to be, he to be
the man at the helm, in of the flightpath;
he's flying a chair, quite beyond
he's going to have just one chance
at a roll.
All in a dream, all as a dream,
the colours too bright, the music too -
the black-out has just begun to show.
cracked-out words I offer...
but I still know.
Cool suffuse the colour gun -
oh come in, in number one:
time's nearly run.
the frame,
the present and the hold fast...
It's too fast, the don't,
the won't,
the thing last.

The rolling dice clash together never make up the
old device, the ejector seat, glued to the floor.
Everybody waits for everyone to a show -
no-one wants to be the first, that they know
how that's gone down here
fit into an analytic groove...
W
ait for the move,
for some action we all can approve.
Too to drink, for the cup reaches down to the sea;
too much to think, the pressuring me.
Rolling down the weather for an parade,
reeling out the 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 factual wisdom
don't us to fly the plane
(no, and it will...)
Beneath the two-piece something rips undone...
for the ladder to run
wait for the that the ladder becomes.
A hits the cockpit, willing to chance his game:
out his gun and cocks it
in the hope that it all might change. (oh, but it will...)
A fly-leaf from the library shows others have been before,
tried, failed and out the door;
the aircrew don't anymore -
not they just
for the of the silk-worm wing,
wait for the heat to come on us
- full of the law.
Silk-Worm
Full force of 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,
only one thing for shure:
when the goes up
the calm 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 their time and refrain:
there's something in everything if you can only pin down its
Aerobatic at the back of my mind -
Is it nothing but the looping 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 defect to their
the umbilical is ripped -
here we all are in fall.
I stall where I am, as if to see I've been:
only running down the line we all follow,
only chasing down the spiral of DNA -
There can be no looking on to tomorrow today.
Life/death/night/day - cold will surely fly away.
Is the empire of sensation locked in a box
deep in me, encoded 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...
this is now, which be then -
is this the 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
Published by Hit and Run Music Ltd.
by permission.
S-type records, 55-59 Shaftsbury Ave., W.I.
by Jet
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