Luyện nghe bài hát Peppers And Tomatoes

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

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

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

Military are passing through our village
Passing through our with young soldiers ill at ease.
Unsmiling and unshaven, 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 will not here",
But the next night at the caf, I bring wine to the table,
I bring wine to the table, but they are sitting drinking beer.

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

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

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

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

Oh little patch of dirt, and this little pile of stones
I can the dust from off my face 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 mouth is dry, my hands are moist, and if tries to stop me,
tries to stop me, I am ready now to kill.

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

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