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 me on another line.
Indian restaurants curry my brain.
Newspaper warriors changing the names

Advertise from the stand.
With cold hands.
word-player, I'll be your headline.
If you catch me time.

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

Ale-spew, puddle-brew --- boys, it up clean.
Coke and bacardi them green.
From the typing pool goes the mini-skirted
great finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your burial is fifty feet
in the baker street underground. (what the hell!)
Walking the gutter thinking,
``how the hell am I ''
Well, I didn't ask you but thanks all the same.

Pig-me and the

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

Crash-barrier

And here I --- dragging one foot in the gutter ---
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 crash-barrier waltzer ---
Some only son's mother. street casualty.
Oh, mr. policeman --- blue shirt master.
Feet in plaster ---
the old lady on.
Strange ---
His to her juliet.
Her sleeping draught, his regret.
No drunken bums to sleep here in the
emptiness.
Oh officer, let me send her to a hotel ---
I'll pay the bill and make her well - hell you
will!
No do-good kill. we must teach them
To be still independent.

england reverie

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

There was a little boy on a burning log,
Rubbing his hands with glee. he said, ``oh england,
Did you light my smile; or did you
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 the nonsense that it seems.''

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

Talking to the gutter-stinking, winking in the
Old way.
I to catch 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.
With cold 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 --- my baker street bruise.
Like to take her --- but I'm just a street muse.

(I get out!)