Luyện nghe bài hát Trite

[Sage

i'm identity crises.
"no not." "yes we are."
i'm having crises.
"no not." "yes we are."

i don't have a feeling that hasn't been felt, feeling on my tip,
showing my hand...revealing i've dealt with.
and how i'm dealing. cut the deck. distribute the pieces
of shit talking our disputes on weekends.
we can sing along to other's song, right?
if the interpretation is wrong, right?
just make sure you don't bring the mike,
'cause i don't care about meeting a boyfriend we can all (nah!).
this song is called trite, hope ya it.
could've substituted your name with the title but i that i'd keep it private.
dream sequences just seem endless.
i can see myself making a entrance
to workplace with a smirk on my face.
and a in my cheek. and a gun in my reach.
sneaking naked photos of myself under the of your co-workers,
putting a knife to your throat and out "i won't hurt her!"
like, "let her go!"
and i'm like, "let her grow!"
prisoners wouldn't listen to this. their side was out on a furlough.
i like turbo-nuclear affairs.
i want a wife, a house, and two and a half mistresses to when i'm not there.
then up the phone, and have my wife call up the phone company,
and ask the company guy "why???"

and he's like, "ma'am...well, maybe you don't know how to talk."
and she's like, "damn...well...wanna me?"
"yeah of course."

see? closed. and he knows how to trace calls,
so i make cranks saying, "i hate ya'll!"
i baseballs at my mirror, break walls a tear a-
nother page out of my diary, throwing it from the eighth 'til i hear a
pin drop. unsuspecting are in shock.
they know i'm to kill myself with a sling shot.
bring rocks for ammunition,
steal my lifetime magazines and cancel my subscription.
their hands are itching to scratch my clean records.
my rap sheets are infected, now i can't be
i just to be elected! i ask for just a second chance.
the answer was "kid, you never did in the first place."

speaking of that, give me my ribbons back and anything that is mine.
waiting for a nice guy who can't it to the finish line.
when i die you won't the picture buried inside the obituary,
but it'll say, "bye, i miss you much."

i'm always one for last at departing time,
in a million is when this dead star will shine.
say my fuckin' name. nope. say my name. nope.
you don't...know to call me so you don't.
you you don't call me.
you don't you call me.