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 flute hands.
Symphony match-seller, breath out of -
You can me on another line.

Indian restaurants curry my brain.
warriors changing the names they advertise from the station
Stand. With cold hands.
Symphony word-player, be your headline.
If you me another time.

Didn't her - with my Baker 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.
and Bacardi colours them green.
From the typing pool goes the mini-skirted princess great finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your burial is fifty feet down in the Baker
underground.

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

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

Big Fraulein, put your weight on me," said the pig-me to the
Whore, for more in his assault upon the mountain.
Little man, his a fountain. Overdrafted and still counting.
Vernacular, verbose; an at getting close to where he came from.
In the of the stars, between Blandford Street and Mars;
Proposition, deal. button feel. Testicle testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. Dressed to the left, the wrinkles of his
Years.
induced fears.
Shedding tears in the pocket of her resistance.
assistance flowing generous and full to his never-ready tool.
Pulls his eyes her wool. And he shudders as he comes -
And my rudder slowly turns me the Marylebone Road.

And here slip I - dragging one in the gutter -
In the midnight echo of the shop that cheap radios.
And there sits she - no bed, no nor butter -
On a yellow line where she can park anytime.
Old Lady Grey; Waltzer -
Some only son's mother. Street casualty.
Oh, Mr. Policeman - shirt ballet master.
in sticking plaster - Move the old lady on.
Strange - His Romeo to her Juliet.
Her sleeping draught his regret.
No drunken bums allowed to sleep here in the emptiness.
Oh officer, oh let me send her to a hotel -
pay the bill and make 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 Time or Rolling Stone.
I have no wish for wishing-wells or 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 no-body left for 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 fire me?
One day be a minstrel 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 through the Baker Street valley, in my steep-sided
Un-reality.

And when all's said and all's - couldn't wish for a better one.
It's a ripe dead-certainty - that I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
Talking to the gutter-stinking, in the same old way.
I tried to catch my eye but I the other 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. cold flute hands.
match-seller, breath out of time -
You can me on another line.

Didn't her - with my Baker Street 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.
Just a Baker Muse