Luyện nghe bài hát Little Death

Now it out
Like a finger in the back of your
Cherubs and cerebellum, Tara at Sarah's
Sam Sam
Band pushed upon the finger of Sam's hand
If sickens you, you a bigot
If it well then you wicked
is life
Odd as Egg McMuffins at
No answers, so let us watch dancers
reformed gracefully being born
On the pallet of dark greys, and spirals
into a Eiffel
It then it tidals
Vacillates it virals
Babylons it Bibles and others
And me of the spinning mothers
And today's mathematics for
And bellies covered like the cummerbunds of butlers

How was your day, can I make you say
What I hear, cause I want you here
The hell that we to the heavens do anything for
La petite mort, la mort

They keep the bottles to make glass houses
Then climb up to the floors and throw rocks out it
Then expect not a in reply
place vulnerable like prolly in the eye
What of the what is it missin', is it dry?
Did it die in some inhumane so it didn't go relaxed
And attention its demise pulled all of the flavor from the fat
And made it flat and rather
there's a place that has a stunning [?]
And more murdered Pisces
But barbaric are the prices
rather niceless, apricot in dices and fromage slices
My son will call risotto
If and when left to his own devices, well
How is your
Is it returning like a lemon
To bitter fruit of what you meant to me
Or was it slippin' like am I trippin' like Phil
I feel I'm grippin' but maybe the
Still left out the life, left out the will, grief
Will cheese never your teeth
like kosher beef
Is it real, is it real, is it
Ha, hah!

How at the date can I you my break
Cause I want you dear, ooh, I want you
The hell that we raised to the make [?] for
Our mort, our petite mort

So glad you're back, but not glad at that glad
is the glamor in collapse?
Where in the shatter of the facts shoves one to a pattern of stab wounds
Swoon ridden goons consumed and driven mad
The attended years slowly with baboons
That other monkey
killers go free cause a junkie's a funky witness
Runny mascaras from the cunning wearers of death
errors, sittin' like two oil derricks
Separated by a sea of num nums
of an every day playing hum drum
Where recognition went
And then solidified till it was
We should've poets
Somewhere between amateurs and of iambic pentameter

How are your chains, do make you behave
Keep you over here, by your
from grace down from heaven to memories [?]
La petite mort, la mort