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.

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

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

Ale-spew, - boys, throw it up clean.
Coke and colours them green.
From the typing pool goes the princess with great finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your mound 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 Baker Muse.

Walking down the 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 in his assault upon the mountain.
man, his youth a fountain. Overdrafted and still counting.
Vernacular, verbose; an attempt at getting close to he came from.
In the doorway of the stars, Blandford Street and Mars;
Proposition, deal. Flying feel. Testicle testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. Dressed to the left, divulging the of his
Years.
induced fears.
Shedding bell-end tears in the of her resistance.
assistance flowing generous and full to his never-ready tool.
Pulls his eyes over her wool. And he as he comes -
And my rudder slowly me into the Marylebone Road.

And here slip I - one foot in the gutter -
In the midnight echo of the shop sells cheap radios.
And there sits she - no bed, no bread nor -
On a double yellow line she can park anytime.
Old Lady Grey; Waltzer -
only son's mother. Baker Street casualty.
Oh, Mr. Policeman - blue ballet master.
Feet in sticking plaster - the old lady on.
pas-de-deux - His Romeo to her Juliet.
Her sleeping draught his regret.
No drunken bums allowed to here in the crowded emptiness.
Oh officer, oh let me send her to a hotel -
I'll pay the bill and make her well - hell you bloody will!
No do-good over kill. We must teach them to be more independent

I have no time for Time Magazine or Stone.
I no wish 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 no Top Twenty funeral or a hundred grand.
There was a little boy stood on a burning log, rubbing his with glee.
He said, "Oh Mother England, did you light my smile; or did you
This under me?
One day be a minstrel in the gallery.
And paint you a of the queen.
And if I sing to a cynical degree -
It's just the nonsense it seems.
So I drift down through the Street valley, in my steep-sided
Un-reality.

And when all's said and all's done - couldn't wish for a one.
It's a real-life dead-certainty - that 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 looked the way.

restaurants that curry my brain -
Newspaper warriors changing the names they advertise 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.

make her - with my Baker Street Ruse.

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