Luyện nghe bài hát Baker St. Muse

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.

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

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.

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

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

down the gutter thinking, "How the Hell 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 more in his assault the mountain.
Little man, his a fountain. Overdrafted and still counting.
Vernacular, verbose; an attempt at getting close to he came from.
In the doorway of the stars, between Blandford and Mars;
Proposition, deal. button feel. Testicle 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 and full to his never-ready tool.
his eyes over her wool. And he shudders as he comes -
And my rudder slowly turns me the Marylebone Road.

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

I have no for Time Magazine or Rolling Stone.
I have no wish for or wishing bones.
I have no house in the country I no motor-car.
And if you I'm joking, then 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 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 I'll be a in the gallery.
And you a picture of the queen.
And if sometimes I sing to a cynical -
just the nonsense that it seems.
So I drift down the Baker Street valley, in my steep-sided
Un-reality.

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

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

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

Didn't her - with my Baker Street Ruse.

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