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.
Symphony match-seller, out of time -
You can me on another line.

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

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

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

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

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

Big bottled Fraulein, put your weight on me," said the to the
Whore, desperate for more in his assault the mountain.
Little man, his a fountain. Overdrafted and still counting.
Vernacular, verbose; an attempt at getting close to where he from.
In the doorway of the stars, Blandford Street and Mars;
Proposition, deal. Flying button feel. testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. Dressed to the left, divulging the of his
Years.
Wedding-bell fears.
bell-end tears in the pocket of her resistance.
International assistance flowing and full 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 here slip I - one foot in the gutter -
In the midnight echo of the shop that sells radios.
And there she - no bed, no bread nor butter -
On a double yellow line she can park anytime.
Old Lady Grey; Waltzer -
Some only mother. Baker Street casualty.
Oh, Mr. Policeman - blue shirt master.
Feet in sticking plaster - Move the old on.
Strange - His Romeo to her Juliet.
Her sleeping draught his regret.
No drunken allowed to sleep here in the crowded emptiness.
Oh officer, oh let me her to a cheap hotel -
I'll pay the bill and her well - like hell you bloody will!
No do-good over kill. We must teach to be still more independent

I have no time for Magazine or Rolling Stone.
I have no for wishing-wells or wishing bones.
I no house 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 there's no-body left for tennis; and I'm a one-band-man.
And I want no Top Twenty funeral or a grand.
There was a little boy stood on a burning log, rubbing his with glee.
He said, "Oh England, did you light my smile; or did you light
This under me?
One day I'll be a in the gallery.
And you a picture of the queen.
And if sometimes I sing to a degree -
It's just the that it seems.
So I down through the Baker Street valley, in my steep-sided
Un-reality.

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

Indian restaurants curry my brain -
warriors changing the names they advertise from the station
Stand. Circumcised 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 me on another line.

Didn't make her - with my Baker Ruse.

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