Luyện nghe bài hát The Breakfast Conspiracy

gonna tell you a story; some kind of a conspiracy
in bed, sir?
breakfast in bed,
ah, no thanks, not
in fact, I'd far rather be sitting in a distinctly position
so that I may at least the ghost of a chance to digest
what I don't mind telling you- is completely slop
lovingly and habitually and served by
the thugs and vagabonds who are the so-called staff of institution
with the menu, sir?
finished the menu, sir?
with the menu, sir?
finished with the menu,
yes, yes, I enjoy soft cakes, toast, tea, scrambled eggs,
jam...
mind you, I complain, before I came here I thought
scrambled were supposed to be brown and crispy at the bottom
and dull at the top
my mother, god bless her, cannot boil a kettle
burnin the water inside
When I came it's a different story, you know, oh yes,
a whole deck of cards...
scrambled eggs arrive the consistency of a moth swimming about
in a foul yellow I wonder where that came from?
I would like to put my theory, my own inside story, if you will,
you wanted to what I think?
I think that every as we sleep
our beloved kitchen staff gathers around the eggs
like some cult offering homage to a false icon
first, the head chef, the leader, ritualistically stands on an
institutional chair, the fly of his
institutional trousers, out his
willy, and urinates in our breakfast.
HA HA HA!
they're a bunch of loonies, what do they care?
the bloody time they end up throwing it on the floor,
or worse still, at other...