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 me on another line.

Indian that curry my brain.
Newspaper warriors changing the names they from the station
Stand. With print 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 a Baker Street Muse.

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

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

Big bottled Fraulein, put weight on me," said the pig-me to the
Whore, for more in his assault upon the mountain.
Little man, his youth a fountain. and still counting.
Vernacular, verbose; an attempt at close to where he came from.
In the doorway of the stars, between Blandford Street and
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 I - dragging one foot in the gutter -
In the echo of the shop that sells cheap radios.
And there sits she - no bed, no bread nor -
On a double line where she can park anytime.
Old Grey; Crash-barrier Waltzer -
Some only son's mother. Baker casualty.
Oh, Mr. Policeman - shirt ballet master.
Feet in plaster - Move the old lady on.
Strange - His Romeo to her Juliet.
Her sleeping his poisoned regret.
No drunken bums to sleep here in the crowded emptiness.
Oh officer, oh let me her to a cheap hotel -
I'll pay the bill and make her - like hell you bloody will!
No do-good over kill. We must them to be still more independent

I have no time for Time Magazine or Stone.
I have no wish for or wishing bones.
I have no house in the country I no motor-car.
And if you think I'm joking, then I'm just a one-line 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.
There was a little boy stood on a log, rubbing his hands with glee.
He said, "Oh Mother England, did you light my 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 drift down through the Baker Street valley, in my
Un-reality.

And when all's and all's done - couldn't wish 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 tried to catch my eye but I the other way.

Indian that curry my brain -
Newspaper changing the names they advertise from the station
Stand. Circumcised with cold 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 make her - with my Baker Ruse.

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