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 me on another line.

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

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

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

What the
I 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.

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

Big bottled Fraulein, put your weight on me," said the to the
Whore, desperate for in his assault upon the mountain.
Little man, his a fountain. Overdrafted and still counting.
Vernacular, verbose; an at getting close to where he came from.
In the doorway of the stars, between Street and Mars;
Proposition, deal. Flying feel. Testicle testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. Dressed to the left, divulging the of his
Years.
induced fears.
Shedding bell-end in the pocket of her resistance.
International flowing generous and full to his never-ready tool.
Pulls his eyes over her wool. And he shudders as he -
And my rudder slowly turns me into the Road.

And here slip I - dragging one foot in the -
In the midnight of the shop that sells cheap radios.
And there sits she - no bed, no nor butter -
On a double yellow where she can park anytime.
Old Grey; Crash-barrier Waltzer -
Some son's mother. Baker Street casualty.
Oh, Mr. Policeman - blue ballet master.
Feet in plaster - Move the old lady on.
Strange pas-de-deux - His to her Juliet.
Her sleeping his poisoned regret.
No bums allowed to sleep here in the crowded emptiness.
Oh officer, oh let me send her to a hotel -
I'll pay the bill and make her - like hell you bloody will!
No do-good over kill. We must teach 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 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 funeral or a grand.
There was a little boy stood on a burning log, 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 you a picture of the queen.
And if sometimes I to a cynical degree -
It's the nonsense that it seems.
So I drift through the Baker Street valley, in my steep-sided
Un-reality.

And all's said and all's done - couldn't wish for a better one.
It's a real-life ripe dead-certainty - that I'm just a Street Muse.
to the gutter-stinking, winking in the same old way.
I tried to my eye but I looked the other way.

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

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

Didn't make her - with my Baker Ruse.

shake her - with my Baker Street Bruise.
Like to take her - I'm a Baker Street Muse.
I'm just a Baker Street Muse. Just a Baker Muse.
Just a Baker Muse