Luyện nghe bài hát The Gallery

My full of little holes with heads in,
at the street.
They topple forwards,
then at one another,
freaks.
They rarely speak and though I feed them--
still they keep their (their quadruple) chins.
garbage bins are emptied each day.
By waiting with lights off, their cats out,
their in-- they're PEEPING!
They're peeping at the methylated man who in a can,
spreads his for silver,
pans for gold.
He mutters old forgotten his father taught him,
on the floor.
He in alcoves,
gets in waterfalls down rotting walls.
(He's bored.)
My friends applaud, throw and wait. . .
from the gallery.