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 restaurants curry my brain.
warriors changing the names they

Advertise the station stand.
With print hands.
Symphony word-player, I'll be headline.
If you me another time.

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

Ale-spew, --- boys, throw it up clean.
Coke and colours them green.
From the pool goes the mini-skirted princess
great finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, burial mound is fifty feet
Down in the baker underground. (what the hell!)
Walking the gutter thinking,
``how the am I today? ''
Well, I really ask you but thanks all the same.

Pig-me and the

``big bottled fraulein, put weight on me,'' said 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
he came from.
In the doorway of the stars, blandford street
And
Proposition, deal. flying button feel. testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. to the left, divulging
The of his years.
Wedding-bell fears.
Shedding bell-end tears in the of her resistance.
assistance flowing generous and full
To his tool.
Pulls his over her wool.
And he as he comes.
And my rudder slowly me into the marylebone
Road.

waltzer

And here I --- dragging one foot in the gutter ---
In the midnight echo of the that sells cheap
Radios.
And there sits she --- no bed, no bread, no ---
On a double yellow --- where she can park anytime.
Old lady grey; crash-barrier ---
Some only son's mother. street casualty.
Oh, mr. policeman --- blue shirt master.
in sticking plaster ---
Move the old 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 make her - like hell you
will!
No over kill. we must teach them
To be more independent.

Mother england

I have no time for magazine or rolling stone.
I have no wish for wishing wells or bones.
I have no in the country I have no motor car.
And if you think I'm joking, then I'm a one-line
in a public bar.
And it seems there's no-body left for and i'm
A one-band-man.
And I want no top twenty funeral or a grand.

There was a little boy on a burning log,
his hands with glee. he said, ``oh mother england,
Did you light my or did you light
This under me?
One day I'll be a in the gallery.
And paint you a of the queen.
And if sometimes I sing to a cynical ---
just the nonsense that it seems.''

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

Talking to the gutter-stinking, 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
from the station stand.
Circumcised cold print hands.

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.

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

(I get out!)