Luyện nghe bài hát The Sky Beneath My Feet

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