Luyện nghe bài hát Baker St. Muse

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.

Indian 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.

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

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

What the
I didn't make her - my Baker Street Ruse.
shake her - with my Baker Street Bruise.
Like to take her - I'm 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 weight on me," the pig-me to the
Whore, desperate for in his assault upon the mountain.
Little man, his youth a fountain. Overdrafted and 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. Dressed to the left, the wrinkles of his
Years.
Wedding-bell fears.
Shedding tears in the pocket of her resistance.
assistance flowing generous and full to his never-ready tool.
Pulls his eyes her wool. And he shudders as he comes -
And my rudder turns me into the Marylebone Road.

And here slip I - dragging one 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 son's mother. Baker casualty.
Oh, Mr. Policeman - blue shirt master.
in sticking plaster - Move the old lady on.
Strange - 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 cheap -
I'll pay the bill and her well - like hell you bloody will!
No do-good over kill. We must them to be still more independent

I have no time for Time Magazine or Stone.
I have no wish for wishing-wells or bones.
I no house in the country I have no motor-car.
And if you think I'm joking, then I'm just a one-line 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 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 be a minstrel in the gallery.
And you a picture of the queen.
And if sometimes I to a cynical degree -
just the nonsense that it seems.
So I drift down the Baker Street valley, in my steep-sided
Un-reality.

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

Indian restaurants that curry my -
warriors changing the names they advertise from the station
Stand. with cold 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.

Didn't make her - with my Street Ruse.

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