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 call me on line.

restaurants that curry my brain.
Newspaper warriors changing the names they advertise the station
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 just a Street Muse.

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

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

Walking down the gutter thinking, "How the 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 youth a fountain. and still counting.
Vernacular, verbose; an attempt at getting close to where he from.
In the doorway of the stars, between Blandford Street and
Proposition, deal. Flying button feel. testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. 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 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 foot in the -
In the midnight echo of the that sells cheap radios.
And there she - no bed, no bread nor butter -
On a double line where she can park anytime.
Old Lady Grey; Waltzer -
Some only son's mother. Baker casualty.
Oh, Mr. Policeman - blue ballet master.
Feet in sticking plaster - the old lady on.
Strange pas-de-deux - His to her Juliet.
Her sleeping 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 bill and 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 no wish for wishing-wells or wishing bones.
I have no house in the country I no motor-car.
And if you think I'm joking, then I'm a one-line joker in a public
Bar.
And it seems there's no-body 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 log, rubbing his hands with glee.
He said, "Oh Mother England, did you my smile; or did you light
fire under me?
One day be a minstrel in the gallery.
And paint you a of the queen.
And if sometimes I sing to a cynical -
It's just the that it seems.
So I drift down the Baker Street valley, in my steep-sided
Un-reality.

And when all's said and all's done - couldn't wish for a one.
a real-life ripe 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 the other way.

restaurants 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 man stands. With cold flute hands.
Symphony match-seller, out of time -
You can me on another line.

make her - with my Baker Street Ruse.

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