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

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

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.

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

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

Big bottled Fraulein, put your on me," said 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 where he from.
In the of the stars, between Blandford Street and Mars;
Proposition, deal. Flying feel. Testicle testing.
ever-bulging. Dressed to the left, divulging the wrinkles of his
Years.
Wedding-bell fears.
Shedding bell-end tears in the of her resistance.
International assistance flowing generous and full to his tool.
his eyes over her wool. And he shudders as he comes -
And my rudder turns me into the Marylebone Road.

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

I have no time for Time 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 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
fire under me?
One day I'll be a in the gallery.
And paint you a of the queen.
And if sometimes I sing to a cynical -
just the nonsense that it seems.
So I drift down through the Baker Street valley, in my
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 to catch my eye but I looked the other way.

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

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

Didn't make her - my Baker Street Ruse.

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