Luyện nghe bài hát The Breakfast Conspiracy

gonna you a story; some kind of a breakfast conspiracy
in bed, sir?
breakfast in bed,
ah, no thanks, not
in fact, I'd far rather be in a distinctly upright position
so that I may at have the ghost of a chance to digest
I don't mind telling you- is completely inedible slop
lovingly and habitually prepared and by
the thugs and vagabonds who are the so-called of this institution
finished with the menu,
with the menu, sir?
finished with the menu,
finished with the menu,
yes, yes, I shall enjoy cakes, toast, tea, scrambled eggs,
jam...
mind you, I can't complain, I came here I thought
scrambled eggs supposed to be brown and crispy at the bottom
and dull at the top
my mother, god bless her, cannot boil a fuckin
without burnin the water
When I came here a different story, you know, oh yes,
a whole different of cards...
eggs arrive with the consistency of a moth swimming about
in a foul yellow liquid- I wonder that came from?
I would like to put forth my theory, my own story, if you will,
you to know what I think?
I think that every morning as we
our beloved kitchen staff around the scrambled eggs
like some pagan cult offering homage to a icon
first, the head chef, the cult leader, ritualistically on an
chair, opens the fly of his
institutional trousers, out his
willy, and urinates in our breakfast.
HA HA HA!
they're just a bunch of loonies, what do they
the bloody time they end up throwing it on the floor,
or worse still, at other...