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 me on another line.

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

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

Ale-spew, puddle-brew - boys, it up clean.
Coke and Bacardi 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 make her - with my Baker Street Ruse.
Couldn't her - with 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 really ask you but thanks all the same.

Big bottled Fraulein, put weight on me," said the pig-me 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 close to where he came from.
In the doorway of the stars, Blandford Street and Mars;
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 over her wool. And he shudders as he comes -
And my rudder slowly turns me the Marylebone Road.

And here slip I - dragging one foot in the -
In the midnight echo of the shop that 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 sticking plaster - the old lady on.
pas-de-deux - His Romeo to her Juliet.
Her sleeping his poisoned regret.
No drunken bums allowed to here in the crowded emptiness.
Oh officer, oh let me send her to a hotel -
I'll pay the bill and make her well - hell you bloody will!
No do-good over kill. We teach them to be still more independent

I no time for Time Magazine or Rolling Stone.
I have no 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 left 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 burning log, his hands with glee.
He said, "Oh Mother England, did you light my or did you light
This fire me?
One day I'll be a in the gallery.
And paint you a of the queen.
And if sometimes I to a cynical degree -
It's just the that it seems.
So I drift down through the Baker Street valley, in my
Un-reality.

And when all's said and all's done - wish for a better one.
It's a real-life ripe dead-certainty - that I'm just a Street Muse.
Talking to the gutter-stinking, in the same 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 cold 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 call me on line.

Didn't make her - my Baker Street Ruse.

Couldn't shake her - with my Street 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