Luyện nghe bài hát Fugazi

Vodka intimate, an affair with in a Blackheath cell
the fires in a private hell
Provoking the to renew the license
Of a bleeding heart in a fragile capsule

Propping up the crust of the conscience
Wrapped in the christening shard of a
Baptized in tears from the real, tears the real

in the liquid seas on the picadilly line, rat-race
Scuttling through the damp labyrinth
(Caress Ophelia's with breaststroke ambition)
(An albatross in the marry tradition)

Sheathed with the Walkman wear the halo of
Aural contraceptive pregnant conversation
(She the harpoon and it pierced my heart)
(She hung herself my neck)

From the time-life guardians in their bubbles
Safe and dry in my sea of
Nine to fives, with suitable

Cast adrift as sideshow
(Sideshow)

(Peepshow)
Stereo hero becalm, be still,
Drowning, in the real

The thief of hides in Islington now
Praying for his sacred cow
A legacy of romance from a world
The dowry of a mystery girl

A flower, a dockland union
A mistress of from a magazine's thighs
Magdalene's contract more favors
The feeding hands of promise hold her by the throat

A son of the of '45, parading a peroxide standard
disciples conjure testaments of hatred
Aerosol wands where the searchlights
the barbed wire hedges, this is Brixton chess

A knight for folds his newspaper castle
A of habit, begs the boatman's coin
He'll fade with old in the grease stained roll call
And with the heartburn of Good Friday's last supper

Son father scan obituary columns
In search of absent school
While his generation digests high ignorance
Cowering behind curtains and the taped up, windows

Decriminalized
door to door Belsens
Pandora's box of
cruising satellite infested heavens

Waiting, the season of the button
The migration
Radioactive perfumes for the
For the insane, insane

you realize
Do-do-do you
you realize
This world is totally

are the prophets, where are the visionaries?
Where are the poets to breach the dawn of the sentimental
Where are the prophets, are the visionaries?
Where are the poets to breach the of the sentimental mercenary?
Where are the prophets, are the visionaries?
Where are the poets to breach the dawn of the sentimental

Where are the