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.
With cold hands.
match-seller, breath out of time.
You can me on another line.
restaurants that curry my brain.
Newspaper warriors changing the they

Advertise from the 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 take her --- but I'm just a street muse.

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

and the whore

``big fraulein, put your weight on me,'' said the
to the whore,
Desperate for in his assault upon the mountain.
man, his youth a fountain.
Overdrafted and counting.
Vernacular, an attempt 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.
induced fears.
Shedding tears 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 turns me into the marylebone
Road.

waltzer

And slip I --- dragging one foot in the gutter ---
In the echo of the shop that sells cheap
Radios.
And sits she --- no bed, no bread, no butter ---
On a double yellow line --- she can park anytime.
Old lady grey; waltzer ---
Some only son's mother. baker casualty.
Oh, mr. policeman --- blue ballet master.
Feet in plaster ---
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 send her to a hotel ---
I'll pay the bill and make her well - hell you
will!
No do-good over kill. we must them
To be more independent.

Mother england

I have no for time magazine or rolling stone.
I have no wish for wells or wishing bones.
I have no house in the 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 boy stood on a burning log,
Rubbing his hands with glee. he said, ``oh england,
Did you light my smile; or did you
This under me?
One day be a minstrel in the gallery.
And you a picture of the queen.
And if sometimes I sing to a cynical ---
It's the nonsense that it seems.''

So I drift down through the street valley,
In my un-reality.
And when all is said and all is done --- I wish
For a one.
It's a real-life ripe certainty ---
That I'm just a street muse.

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

Indian that curry my brain ---
warriors changing the names they
Advertise the station stand.
Circumcised with cold hands.

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

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

(I get out!)