Luyện nghe bài hát Painters

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

'Cause they were painters and they were themselves
A lovely

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

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

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

And they were painters and they had painted
A lovely

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

He said, "Love I only a little, try to understand
I put my soul in life we've created with these four hands
Love, I leave, but a little, this world 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 many went
And many she saw her love's face watering the flowers,
to the trees and singing to his children,
And when the blew, she knew he was listening,
And how he seemed to laugh along, and how he seemed to her
When she was

'Cause were painters and they had painted themselves
A lovely

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

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