Luyện nghe bài hát Baker St. Muse

bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel.
gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
In the underpass, the blind man stands. With cold hands.
match-seller, breath out of time -
You can call me on line.

Indian that curry my brain.
Newspaper warriors changing the names they from the station
Stand. With cold hands.
Symphony word-player, I'll be headline.
If you me another time.

Didn't make her - with my Baker Ruse.
Couldn't shake her - with my Baker Bruise.
Like to take her - I'm just a Street Muse.

Ale-spew, - boys, throw it up clean.
Coke and Bacardi colours green.
From the typing pool the mini-skirted princess with great finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your burial mound is feet down in the Baker
underground.

What the
I didn't make her - with my Street Ruse.
Couldn't her - with my Baker Street Bruise.
Like to take her - I'm just a Street Muse.

Walking the gutter thinking, "How the Hell am I today?"
Well, I didn't ask you but thanks all the same.

Big bottled Fraulein, put your weight on me," the pig-me to the
Whore, desperate for more in his assault the mountain.
Little man, his youth a fountain. and still counting.
Vernacular, verbose; an attempt at getting close to he came from.
In the doorway of the stars, Blandford Street and Mars;
Proposition, deal. Flying button feel. testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. to the left, divulging the wrinkles of his
Years.
Wedding-bell fears.
bell-end tears in the pocket of her resistance.
International assistance flowing generous and to his never-ready tool.
Pulls his eyes over her wool. And he as he comes -
And my slowly turns me into the Marylebone Road.

And slip I - dragging one foot in the gutter -
In the midnight echo of the shop that sells radios.
And sits she - no bed, no bread nor butter -
On a double yellow where she can park anytime.
Old Grey; Crash-barrier Waltzer -
Some only son's mother. Baker casualty.
Oh, Mr. - blue shirt ballet master.
Feet in sticking - Move the old lady on.
pas-de-deux - His Romeo to her Juliet.
Her sleeping his poisoned regret.
No drunken bums to sleep here in the crowded emptiness.
Oh officer, oh let me her to a cheap hotel -
pay the bill and make her well - like hell you bloody will!
No do-good over kill. We must them to be still more independent

I have no time for Magazine or Rolling Stone.
I no wish for wishing-wells or wishing bones.
I have no in the country I have no motor-car.
And if you think I'm joking, I'm just a one-line joker in a public
Bar.
And it seems there's left for tennis; and I'm a one-band-man.
And I want no Top Twenty or a hundred grand.
There was a boy stood on a burning log, rubbing his hands with glee.
He said, "Oh Mother England, did you my smile; or did you light
fire under me?
One day I'll be a in the gallery.
And paint you a of the queen.
And if I sing to a cynical degree -
just the nonsense that it seems.
So I drift down through the Baker Street valley, in my
Un-reality.

And all's said and all's done - couldn't wish for a better one.
a real-life ripe dead-certainty - that I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
Talking to the gutter-stinking, winking in the old way.
I tried to catch my eye but I looked the way.

Indian restaurants that my brain -
Newspaper warriors changing the they advertise from the station
Stand. with cold print hands.

bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel.
gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
In the underpass, the blind man stands. With cold hands.
match-seller, breath out of time -
You can me on another line.

Didn't her - with my Baker Street Ruse.

shake her - with my Baker Street Bruise.
Like to take her - I'm just a Street Muse.
I'm just a Baker Muse. Just a Baker Street Muse.
a Baker Street Muse