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

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

Big bottled Fraulein, put your weight on me," the pig-me to the
Whore, for more in his assault upon 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 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.
assistance flowing generous and full to his never-ready tool.
Pulls his eyes her wool. And he shudders as he comes -
And my rudder slowly turns me into the Road.

And here slip I - one foot in the gutter -
In the midnight of the shop that sells cheap radios.
And there sits she - no bed, no nor butter -
On a double line where she can park anytime.
Old Grey; Crash-barrier 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 draught his poisoned regret.
No drunken 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 well - like 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 have no for wishing-wells or wishing bones.
I have no 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 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 stood on a burning log, rubbing his with glee.
He said, "Oh Mother England, did you light my or did you light
This under me?
One day be a minstrel in the gallery.
And paint you a of the queen.
And if sometimes I to a cynical degree -
It's just the nonsense it seems.
So I drift down through the Baker Street valley, in my
Un-reality.

And when all's said and all's - 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 catch my eye but I the other way.

Indian that curry my brain -
warriors changing the names they advertise from the station
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 me on another line.

Didn't make her - with my Baker Ruse.

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