Luyện nghe bài hát Good Morning, Hypocrite

Seems like the roads out like veins, but there's no heart.
Nature's haircut is now, and we played our part.
So we ...

I've lost my taste for modern things. not for me.
I want mundane: a quiet place, where is free,
And I can ...

Climbed from my bed, to collect the that'd fallen from my head,
And you watched me sink, through the carpet, the basement, and beyond.
And you blink.

On the glass, I traced the sun with my thumb. It into the ground.
And then the stars blinking, like kids who were staring into the wind.
So I through the window and walked until I lost my name.
Now I can play the victim. It's fine. I've it on TV.
But if there's one I know, it's that I never really know enough.

Our heads, our hands, our brains, our lungs: they're machines.
These hearts are all that we've got left, and don't beat.

Live a little, talk a lot; it's the way goes.
I've come to fear the little knives their well-pressed clothes.
Their arms are reaching; is spreading through the neon glow.
Their mouths are moving, but their voices like telephones.
The hums; the traffic grumbles near my old window.
The street flicker; glow and hover like suspended snow.
I used to watch the moon retreat and wonder it goes.
Now I wonder why my head is overrun with ghosts