Luyện nghe bài hát Baker Street Muse

Baker street

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

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

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

Ale-spew, --- boys, throw it up clean.
Coke and bacardi colours green.
From the typing pool goes the mini-skirted
great finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your burial mound is fifty
Down in the baker underground. (what the hell!)
down the gutter thinking,
``how the am I today? ''
Well, I really 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, verbose; an at getting close to
Where he 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 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 echo of the shop that sells cheap
Radios.
And there she --- no bed, no bread, no butter ---
On a yellow line --- where she can park anytime.
Old grey; crash-barrier waltzer ---
Some son's mother. baker street casualty.
Oh, mr. --- blue shirt ballet master.
Feet in plaster ---
Move the old on.
Strange ---
His to her juliet.
Her draught, his poisoned regret.
No bums allowed to sleep here in the
emptiness.
Oh officer, let me her to a cheap hotel ---
I'll pay the and make her well - like hell you
will!
No do-good over kill. we must teach
To be more independent.

england reverie

I have no time for time magazine or stone.
I have no wish for wishing or wishing bones.
I have no house in the country I have no car.
And if you think I'm joking, then I'm just a
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 stood on a log,
Rubbing his hands glee. he said, ``oh mother england,
Did you light my or did you light
This fire me?
One day I'll be a in the gallery.
And paint you a of the queen.
And if sometimes I sing to a degree ---
just the nonsense that it seems.''

So I drift down through the baker valley,
In my un-reality.
And when all is said and all is done --- I wish
For a one.
It's a real-life 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 names
Advertise from the stand.
Circumcised with print hands.

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

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

(I get out!)