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 that my brain.
warriors changing the names they

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

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

Ale-spew, puddle-brew --- boys, it up clean.
Coke and bacardi them green.
From the typing goes the mini-skirted princess
great finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your burial is fifty feet
Down in the street 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 more in his upon the mountain.
Little man, his a fountain.
and still counting.
Vernacular, an attempt at getting close to
he came from.
In the doorway of the stars, between street
And
Proposition, deal. flying button feel. testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. dressed to the left,
The of his years.
Wedding-bell fears.
Shedding bell-end in the pocket of her resistance.
assistance flowing generous and full
To his tool.
Pulls his over her wool.
And he as he comes.
And my rudder turns me into the marylebone
Road.

Crash-barrier

And here I --- dragging one foot in the gutter ---
In the midnight echo of the shop sells cheap
Radios.
And there sits she --- no bed, no bread, no ---
On a double yellow --- where she can park anytime.
Old grey; crash-barrier waltzer ---
only son's mother. baker street casualty.
Oh, mr. policeman --- blue ballet master.
Feet in sticking ---
Move the old on.
Strange ---
His to her juliet.
Her sleeping draught, his regret.
No drunken allowed to sleep here 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 over kill. we must them
To be more independent.

Mother england

I have no time for magazine or rolling stone.
I no wish 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 no-body left for and i'm
A one-band-man.
And I want no top funeral or a hundred grand.

was a little boy stood on a burning log,
Rubbing his hands with glee. he said, ``oh england,
Did you my smile; or did you light
fire under me?
One day be a minstrel in the gallery.
And you a picture of the queen.
And if sometimes I sing to a degree ---
It's the nonsense that it seems.''

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

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

Indian restaurants that my brain ---
Newspaper warriors changing the they
Advertise from the stand.
Circumcised with cold 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.

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

(I get out!)