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, breath out of -
You can call me on 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 catch me time.

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

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

What the
I make her - with my Baker Street Ruse.
Couldn't her - with my Baker Street Bruise.
Like to take her - I'm just a 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," the pig-me to the
Whore, desperate for in his assault upon the mountain.
man, his youth a fountain. Overdrafted and still counting.
Vernacular, verbose; an attempt at close to where he came from.
In the doorway of the stars, Blandford Street and Mars;
Proposition, deal. Flying button feel. testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. Dressed to the left, the wrinkles of his
Years.
induced fears.
Shedding bell-end in the pocket of her resistance.
International assistance flowing 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 foot in the -
In the midnight echo of the that sells cheap radios.
And there sits she - no bed, no bread nor -
On a double yellow where she can park anytime.
Old Lady Crash-barrier Waltzer -
only son's mother. Baker Street casualty.
Oh, Mr. - blue shirt ballet master.
Feet in sticking plaster - Move the old on.
Strange pas-de-deux - His to her Juliet.
Her sleeping his poisoned regret.
No drunken bums allowed to sleep in the crowded 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 them to be still independent

I have no time for Time Magazine or 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 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 no Top Twenty funeral or a hundred grand.
There was a boy stood on a burning log, rubbing his hands 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 to a cynical degree -
It's just the nonsense it seems.
So I down through the Baker 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 - 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 looked the way.

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

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

Didn't her - with my Baker Street Ruse.

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