Luyện nghe bài hát Baker St. Muse

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

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

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

Ale-spew, puddle-brew - boys, it up clean.
Coke and Bacardi colours green.
From the typing pool the mini-skirted princess with great finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your burial mound is fifty down in the Baker
underground.

What the
I make her - with my Baker Street Ruse.
shake her - with my Baker Street Bruise.
Like to her - I'm just 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 to where he came from.
In the doorway of the stars, between Blandford and Mars;
Proposition, deal. Flying feel. Testicle testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. Dressed to the left, the wrinkles of his
Years.
Wedding-bell fears.
Shedding bell-end tears in the of her resistance.
International flowing generous and full to his never-ready tool.
his eyes over her wool. And he shudders as he comes -
And my slowly turns me into the Marylebone Road.

And here slip I - dragging one in the gutter -
In the midnight of the shop that sells cheap radios.
And there sits she - no bed, no nor butter -
On a yellow line where she can park anytime.
Old Lady Grey; Crash-barrier -
Some son's mother. Baker Street casualty.
Oh, Mr. - blue shirt ballet master.
in sticking plaster - Move the old lady on.
Strange - His Romeo to her Juliet.
Her sleeping his poisoned regret.
No drunken allowed 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 teach them to be still more independent

I have no time for Magazine or Rolling Stone.
I have no wish for wishing-wells or bones.
I have no house in the I have no motor-car.
And if you think I'm joking, then I'm just a one-line 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 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
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 -
It's the nonsense that it seems.
So I drift through the Baker Street valley, in my steep-sided
Un-reality.

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

Indian restaurants that curry my -
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 man stands. With cold flute hands.
Symphony match-seller, breath out of -
You can call me on line.

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.
I'm just a Baker Street Muse. a Baker Street Muse.
a Baker Street Muse