Luyện nghe bài hát Baker St. Muse

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

restaurants that curry my brain.
Newspaper changing the names they advertise from the station
Stand. cold print hands.
Symphony word-player, be your headline.
If you catch me time.

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

Ale-spew, puddle-brew - boys, it up clean.
Coke and colours them 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 Baker Ruse.
Couldn't shake her - with my Baker Bruise.
to take her - I'm just a Baker Street Muse.

Walking down the gutter thinking, "How the am I today?"
Well, I really ask you but thanks all the same.

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

And slip I - dragging one foot in the gutter -
In the midnight echo of the that sells cheap radios.
And there sits she - no bed, no bread nor -
On a double yellow line she can park anytime.
Old Lady Grey; Waltzer -
Some only son's mother. Street casualty.
Oh, Mr. Policeman - blue ballet master.
Feet in sticking plaster - the old lady on.
Strange - His Romeo to her Juliet.
Her draught his poisoned regret.
No bums allowed to sleep here in the crowded emptiness.
Oh officer, oh let me send her to a cheap -
I'll pay the bill and her well - like hell you bloody will!
No do-good over kill. We must teach them to be still independent

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

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

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

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

Didn't make her - with my Street Ruse.

Couldn't her - with my Baker Street Bruise.
Like to take her - I'm a Baker Street Muse.
I'm just a Baker Street Muse. Just a Street Muse.
Just a Baker Muse