Luyện nghe bài hát Baker Street Muse

Baker muse

bus-stop. click. shop-window. heel.
gentleman. fly-button. feel.
In the underpass, the man stands.
cold flute hands.
Symphony match-seller, out of time.
You can call me on line.
Indian that curry my brain.
warriors changing the names they

Advertise from the stand.
With print hands.
Symphony word-player, be your headline.
If you catch me time.

Didn't make her --- with my street ruse.
Couldn't her --- with my baker street bruise.
to take her --- but I'm just a baker street muse.

Ale-spew, --- boys, throw it up clean.
Coke and colours them green.
the typing pool goes the mini-skirted princess
With finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your burial mound is fifty
in the baker street underground. (what the hell!)
Walking the gutter thinking,
``how the am I today? ''
Well, I didn't really ask you but all the same.

and the whore

``big bottled fraulein, put your weight on me,'' the
to the whore,
Desperate for more in his assault the mountain.
man, his youth a fountain.
Overdrafted and counting.
Vernacular, verbose; an at getting close to
Where he from.
In the of the stars, between blandford street
And
Proposition, deal. flying button feel. testing.
ever-bulging. dressed to the left, divulging
The of his years.
induced fears.
Shedding bell-end in the pocket of her resistance.
International assistance flowing and full
To his tool.
Pulls his over her wool.
And he as he comes.
And my rudder slowly me into the marylebone
Road.

Crash-barrier

And here slip I --- dragging one foot in the ---
In the midnight echo of the that sells cheap
Radios.
And sits she --- no bed, no bread, no butter ---
On a double yellow line --- where she can anytime.
Old lady grey; crash-barrier ---
Some only son's mother. baker casualty.
Oh, mr. policeman --- shirt ballet master.
Feet in sticking ---
the old lady on.
Strange ---
His to her juliet.
Her sleeping draught, his regret.
No drunken bums allowed to sleep in the
emptiness.
Oh officer, let me her to a cheap hotel ---
I'll pay the bill and her well - like hell you
will!
No do-good kill. we must teach them
To be more independent.

Mother england

I have no for time magazine or rolling stone.
I have no wish for wishing or wishing bones.
I have no house in the country I no motor car.
And if you think I'm joking, then I'm just a
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 twenty funeral or a grand.

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
fire under me?
One day be a minstrel in the gallery.
And paint you a of the queen.
And if I sing to a cynical degree ---
It's just the that it seems.''

So I down through the baker street valley,
In my un-reality.
And when all is said and all is --- I couldn't wish
For a one.
a real-life ripe dead certainty ---
That I'm just a street muse.

to the gutter-stinking, winking in the same
Old way.
I to catch my eye but I looked the other way.

restaurants that curry my brain ---
Newspaper warriors changing the they
from the station stand.
Circumcised with print hands.

bus-stop. click. shop-window. heel.
gentleman. fly-button. feel.
In the underpass, the man stands.
With cold hands.
Symphony match-seller, out of time ---
You can call me on line.

Didn't make her --- with my street ruse.
Couldn't shake her --- my baker street bruise.
Like to her --- but I'm just a baker street muse.

(I get out!)