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

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

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

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

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

Walking down the gutter thinking, "How the am I today?"
Well, I really ask you but thanks all the same.

Big bottled Fraulein, put your weight on me," the pig-me to the
Whore, desperate for more in his upon the mountain.
man, his youth 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 Street and
Proposition, deal. Flying feel. Testicle testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. to the left, divulging the wrinkles of his
Years.
induced fears.
Shedding bell-end 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 slowly turns me into the Marylebone Road.

And here slip I - dragging one in the gutter -
In the midnight echo of the that sells cheap radios.
And there sits she - no bed, no nor butter -
On a double yellow line she can park anytime.
Old Grey; Crash-barrier Waltzer -
Some son's mother. Baker Street casualty.
Oh, Mr. Policeman - blue shirt master.
Feet in plaster - Move the old lady on.
Strange pas-de-deux - His to her Juliet.
Her draught his poisoned regret.
No drunken bums allowed to sleep here in the emptiness.
Oh officer, oh let me send her to a hotel -
I'll pay the bill and make her well - like hell you will!
No do-good over kill. We must teach them to be more independent

I have no time for Time Magazine or Stone.
I no wish 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 left for tennis; and I'm a one-band-man.
And I want no Top funeral 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
fire under me?
One day I'll be a in the gallery.
And you a picture of the queen.
And if I sing to a cynical degree -
It's just the nonsense it seems.
So I drift down through the Street valley, in my steep-sided
Un-reality.

And when said and all's done - couldn't wish for a better 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 my eye but I looked the other way.

restaurants that curry my brain -
Newspaper changing 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. cold flute hands.
Symphony match-seller, out of time -
You can me on another line.

Didn't make her - with my 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.
a Baker Street Muse