Luyện nghe bài hát Peppers And Tomatoes

This year in my garden I grow and tomatoes,
Peppers and tomatoes, they grow well,
And my neighbours all around me they grow and potatoes
and onions in this village where we dwell.

And later in the year we will bring wine to the
Bring to the table, and reap what we have sown.
Like my father did before and his did before him
And his did before him, we will share what we have grown.

This little patch of dirt, little pile of stones.
I can wash the dust from off my face, and
But this is in my bones.

vehicles are passing through our village
Passing our village with young soldiers ill at ease.
and unshaven, distrustful and uncertain
Distrustful and uncertain, and all constantly.

And my say "Don't worry for you are one of us,
You are one of us and it not happen here",
But the night at the caf, when I bring wine to the table,
When I bring to the table, but they are sitting drinking beer.

Last night the hand of friendship fell on my shoulders,
on my shoulders as I turned away to go.
As I said goodnight old men, some old men and young soldiers
Were humming and singing words to songs that I did not know.

Oh this little patch of dirt, and this little of stones
I can wash the dust from off my and skin,
But earth is in my bones.

This morning my wife told me that she'd to church on Sunday,
to church on Sunday, she had felt the need to pray.
Our children were baptised there but it was just to the old ones,
Just to please the old ones, and I don't know to say.

Tonight, as dark is falling, I am to my garden,
to my garden, and the crop that I have grown.
And my car is laden, and soon I'll start the engine,
Soon I'll start the engine, the children and be gone.

Oh this little of dirt, and this little pile of stones
I can wash the dust from off my and skin
But this is in my bones.

My shotgun it is loaded, and it's in the cabin,
It's hidden in the cabin, and the evening's chilled.
My is dry, my hands are moist, and if someone tries to stop me,
Someone tries to stop me, I am now to kill.

Oh little patch of dirt, and this little pile of stones
I can wash the from off my face and skin
But this is in my bones.

I am my garden, when I smell the cigarette smoke,
the cigarette smoke, and I turn round in the dust
And I see the of rifles, but I cannot see the faces
But I the voices that say, "You must come with us".