Luyện nghe bài hát Garbage

The ritual goes, same different visual.

Wing of wax, or of gold leaf
Choose one. or plummet 20 thousand cold legues
My nourishment's in the summer
So I wonder
How y'all chasin' dreams when what's tangible outruns ya
Hail dirty immaculate performance
Warm as the march of a billion torches to burn what I born at
Cut and paste alertness to set is provided quick
Shimmy the pirate ship mast, bat the at the siren in her bow (?)
Facing, let's salute the embrace pertinent generals who innocent hermits to burning spectacles.
Flirtin' with a serpent workin'
Drain the battery, siphon the poison and his majesty's hatchery.
I was riding on the bus to where the brush thickens.
Yeah, an it ain't exactly plush
I'd rather take the time to burn every last I've ever crossed beneath the sun
live my life knowin' you may one day follow me over one.
Snake
Breath too to hold.
Caught up in the wake of the red tryin' to swim it.
Ran for the sake of dead click of idealic image
Steal a sloppy earth feed my pottery wheel to model collossal vision
Thrill, with a bucket of pennies
I'ma drag my sneakers through the dirt like bellies
'Til the cloud
Honour and a loud thirst submersed in a
Little drummer boy verse'

In a city of garbage, tryin' to reap the
Adaption is the trap in the artist meets the forest
Swing your axe or be an oak tree if you can
Either way, adapt to circumstance or play you hand.

No enigma, an to bury the hatchet
Rendered me victim of deviltry plus like stigmatics
somethin hazardous
I smell an inch of differnce in this mornin's pollution and how the loose ends drift in
My sour pash (?) institutions slipped in the invaders and,
Pardon my but,
This garden's grown fucken' acres my visit.
Itchin' to count the layers in the blizzard to that where my family inserts the dagger and twists it.
It's the carnival, have you any for my weary kin
It's the carnival, have you any for my cheery grin
It's the carnival, welcome, our games you'll never win
Coz it's that carnival where every show spectacle's your friend.
An' I'm a,
Ghostly galleon, upon cloudy seas
Antifreeze to cookin' a look of fiery nature
the,
Ceilin' feelin' too heavy to bless the I-beams for a fraction more collapse (I left sorry) that to door.
Bitchin' my back to hell's kitchen,
Burnin' machinery, released regardless of the pardons
Hitchin my life to the of one minstrel
Sick of window different visual
Same agnostic different ritual
Play, coopertive supercolony clash (I heard we have a collection - let me see it)
Ooh, I duel this underdog forced adaption to the marbles of the now
then my knuckles haven't once dragged on the ground.

In a city of garbage, to reap the harvest
Adaption is the trap in which the artist the forest
your little axe or be an oak tree if you can
Either way, adapt to circumstance or you final hand.

The goes, same window different visual.
The ritual is same fucken' different visual.