Luyện nghe bài hát Painters

Eighty years, an old lady now, on the front porch
the clouds roll by
They remind her of her lover, how he left her, and of long ago,
When she used carelessly, painted his portrait
A thousand times, or just his smile,
Her and her canvas follow him wherever he would go

'Cause they were painters and they were painting
A world

Oil streaked daisies covered the living walls
He put colored roses in her hair
He said, "Love, I you,
I want to you the mountains, the sunshine,
The too
I want to give you a world as as you are to me"

'Cause I'm a painter and I to paint you
A way

So they sat down and a drawing of their love,
made it an art to live by
They every passion, every home, created every beautiful child
In the winter they were of warmth,
In the summer they were carpenters of
They blue prints were too sad so they made them yellow

And they were and they had painted themselves
A lovely

Until one day the rain fell as thick as oil
And in her she knew something was wrong
She went running the orchard screaming,
"No God, take him from me!"
But by the time she got there, she feared he already had
She got to where he lay, colored roses in his hands for her
She them down screaming, "Damn you man, don't leave me
With nothing left behind but cold paintings, these cold portraits
To me!"

He said, "Love I only leave a little, try to
I put my soul in this life we've with these four hands
Love, I leave, but only a little, this holds me still
My may die now, but these paintings are real"
La li lai la li lai la li lai

So many seasons came and seasons went
And many times she saw her love's watering the flowers,
to the trees and singing to his children,
And the wind blew, she knew he was listening,
And how he seemed to laugh along, and how he seemed to her
she was crying

'Cause they were and they had painted themselves
A lovely

Eighty years, an old lady now, on the front porch
Watching the roll by
They remind her of her lover, how he left her, and of long ago,
When she color carelessly, painted his portrait
A thousand times, or maybe his smile,
Her and her would follow him wherever he would go
Yes, she and her canvas still

they are painters and they are painting themselves
A
they are painters and they are painting themselves
A lovely