Luyện nghe bài hát The Sky Beneath My Feet

O come ye young of Hamlyn--you who my tune so well,
it beckons you must follow--be it Heaven (be it Hell).
Forget your mothers grieving as I pipe you the street,
With a shilling in my pocket--and the sky my feet.
Chameleons bask in the reflection--awaiting a chance curtain call,
And here from the wings I have them and wondered if God does exist
all.
On Ferris Wheel all the dreamers ride free (from the top you can only
go down),
No-one but yourself is to blame if you presume to walk upon water drown.
Now your bridges are is time that you learned there is no turning
back,
All your airs and graces should vacate their places for the you lack.
Though empty vessels made most sound--not one word was said,
Vainglory hunters seek their where angels fear to tread.
ME--follow and I will lead,
With truth that hurts stick and stone.
When rats that scuttled ships
Birds of a feather sought own.
To their dreams a lantern that outshines the brightest star,
Turn whispers battlecries the winds shall carry far.
When hearts by conviction--keeping beats so pure and strong,
Are at last as one united (a of steel--The Sword of Song).
We gathered together as sister and brother to dance the world was abed,
the next dawn in the grey light of morning these lambs to the slaughter
led
Out of the shadows vagabonds congregate (those who have stuck to their
guns),
While satellites frantically circulate orbiting mirror-ball suns.
I will not play a part in this infantile offer I decline,
Building walls of to conceal your intentions was just a waste of
time.
Though in your life of make-believe the best came for free,
Why I trust my plans in the 'capable' hands of a shallow fool like thee.
FOLLOW and I will lead,
truth that hurts like stick and stone,
When rats their scuttled departed--
Birds of a feather their own.
The goose that lays the golden sacrifice and bury it,
If you believe me watch me as upon its grave I spit,
Worldly treasures no worth--but self-respect is beyond price,
And Hell's the best alternative when with your fool's paradise.
Some say I bite the hand that feeds--but to these disillusioned
'tis sweet revenge to it bleed (it has only fed me lies),
The horses you were flogging could not rise and stand upon its legs,
Behold the leper-minstrel has been and nevermore shall beg.