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.
Symphony match-seller, out of time.
You can call me on line.
Indian restaurants curry my brain.
Newspaper warriors the names they

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

make 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.

Ale-spew, puddle-brew --- boys, it up clean.
Coke and colours them green.
the typing pool goes the mini-skirted princess
With finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your mound is fifty feet
Down in the 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.

Pig-me and the

``big bottled fraulein, put weight on me,'' said the
to the whore,
Desperate for more in his upon the mountain.
Little man, his a fountain.
and still counting.
Vernacular, verbose; an attempt at close to
Where he from.
In the doorway of the stars, between blandford
And
Proposition, deal. flying feel. testicle testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. dressed to the left,
The of his years.
induced fears.
Shedding bell-end tears in the of her resistance.
assistance flowing generous and full
To his tool.
Pulls his eyes her wool.
And he as he comes.
And my rudder slowly turns me into the
Road.

waltzer

And here I --- dragging one foot in the gutter ---
In the midnight echo of the shop that cheap
Radios.
And there she --- no bed, no bread, no butter ---
On a double yellow --- where she can park anytime.
Old lady grey; crash-barrier ---
Some only mother. baker street casualty.
Oh, mr. policeman --- shirt ballet master.
Feet in 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 well - like you
will!
No do-good kill. we must teach them
To be more independent.

Mother england

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

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

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

Indian that curry my brain ---
Newspaper warriors changing the they
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 flute 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 --- with my baker bruise.
to take her --- but I'm just a baker street muse.

(I get out!)