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.
match-seller, breath out of time -
You can call me on line.

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

make her - with my Baker Street 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 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 Street Bruise.
Like to take her - I'm a Baker Street Muse.

Walking the gutter 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 attempt at getting close to where he from.
In the of the stars, between Blandford Street and Mars;
Proposition, deal. button feel. Testicle testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. Dressed to the left, divulging the of his
Years.
induced fears.
Shedding tears in the pocket of her resistance.
International assistance flowing generous and to his never-ready tool.
Pulls his over 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 shop that cheap radios.
And there she - no bed, no bread nor butter -
On a double yellow line where she can 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 pas-de-deux - His to her Juliet.
Her sleeping his poisoned regret.
No drunken bums to sleep here 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 for Time Magazine or Rolling Stone.
I have no wish for wishing-wells or bones.
I have no house in the country I no motor-car.
And if you think I'm joking, then I'm just a 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 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
fire 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 cynical -
It's just the nonsense it seems.
So I drift 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 dead-certainty - that I'm a Baker Street Muse.
Talking to the gutter-stinking, winking in the old way.
I to catch my eye but I looked the other way.

restaurants that curry my brain -
Newspaper warriors changing the names they advertise from the
Stand. with cold print hands.

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

Didn't her - with my Baker Street Ruse.

Couldn't shake her - 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.
Just a Street Muse