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, out of time -
You can me on another line.

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

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

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

What the
I didn't make her - 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 didn't ask you but thanks all the same.

Big bottled Fraulein, put your weight on me," said the to the
Whore, desperate for more in his upon the mountain.
Little man, his a fountain. Overdrafted and still counting.
Vernacular, verbose; an attempt at getting close to he came from.
In the doorway of the stars, between Blandford Street and
Proposition, deal. Flying feel. Testicle testing.
ever-bulging. Dressed to the left, divulging the wrinkles 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 as he comes -
And my rudder slowly 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 sits she - no bed, no bread nor butter -
On a yellow line where she can park anytime.
Old Grey; Crash-barrier Waltzer -
Some only mother. Baker Street 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 draught his regret.
No drunken bums allowed to sleep in the crowded emptiness.
Oh officer, oh let me send her to a hotel -
I'll pay the and make her well - like hell you bloody will!
No do-good kill. We must teach them to be still more independent

I have no time for Magazine or Rolling Stone.
I have no for wishing-wells or wishing bones.
I have no house in the I have 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 for tennis; and I'm a one-band-man.
And I want no Top Twenty or a hundred grand.
There was a little boy on a burning log, rubbing his hands with glee.
He said, "Oh Mother England, did you my smile; or did you light
This 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 down through the Baker 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 ripe dead-certainty - that I'm just a Baker Muse.
Talking to the gutter-stinking, in the same old way.
I to catch my eye but I looked the other way.

Indian restaurants curry my brain -
Newspaper warriors the names they advertise from the station
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.
Symphony match-seller, out of time -
You can me on another line.

Didn't make her - my Baker Street Ruse.

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