Luyện nghe bài hát Happy Hour

by alcohol,
shooting out like a rocket,
like a prophet out of
acting the absurd...
Shoot me highballs
I'm lit up like I'm plugged in a socket;
lock me to eyeball,
let's not bother the words.
Oh, on the clowns, bring on the night,
pour me double in black and white.
I'm falling, falling don't me that look!
I'm falling, falling, the oldest trick in the book,
My chickadee, my flower,
show me the way to the Hour.

I like to see that:
oh, no, I don't like the way the is shaking,
shape-making like an
on his way to the trapeze.
My friends in the
are all bets
they're taking away the net.
Falling, falling don't me that look!
I'm falling, only falling, it's the trick in the book,
vertigo on the high-wire
is this really they mean by "Happy Hour"?

The between the social and the suicidal
so fine he might not know he's crossed it,
when lost it;
when the social becomes the gauging-stick of survival.

So to the circus,
let's drink to the of forgetting
the strings that jerk us,
the real world just the door.
I know that my legs gone
and I know that the light is far from perfect...
but I've it, so I'll carry on
I wind up on the floor.

My in the bar
will me a round,
toast me on my way to the underground.
I'm falling, falling don't me that look!
I'm falling, falling, it's the oldest trick in the book,
My chickadee, my flower,
me the way to the Happy Hour.
Vertigo on the tower
is really what they mean by "Happy Hour"?

Put on the greasepaint, getting ready for Happy Hour.
Do you me now? Can you feel me now?
I'm in the of Happy Hour...
Put on the greasepaint.
[repeat to