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

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

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 baker muse.

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

and the whore

``big bottled fraulein, put 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, verbose; an at getting close to
Where he from.
In the doorway of the stars, between blandford
And
Proposition, deal. button feel. testicle testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. dressed to the left,
The of his years.
induced fears.
Shedding tears in the pocket of her resistance.
International flowing generous and full
To his tool.
his eyes over her wool.
And he as he comes.
And my slowly turns me into the marylebone
Road.

Crash-barrier

And here slip I --- one foot in the gutter ---
In the midnight of the shop that sells cheap
Radios.
And there she --- no bed, no bread, no butter ---
On a double line --- where she can park anytime.
Old lady grey; crash-barrier ---
Some only son's mother. baker casualty.
Oh, mr. policeman --- shirt ballet master.
in sticking plaster ---
Move the old on.
pas-de-deux ---
His to her juliet.
Her sleeping draught, his regret.
No bums allowed to sleep here in the
emptiness.
Oh officer, let me her to a cheap hotel ---
pay the bill and make her well - like hell you
will!
No over kill. we must teach them
To be more independent.

Mother england

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

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

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

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

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

(I get out!)