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 flute hands.
match-seller, breath out of time.
You can me on another line.
Indian restaurants curry my brain.
warriors changing the names they

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

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

Ale-spew, --- boys, throw it up clean.
Coke and colours them green.
From the typing pool goes the princess
With finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your mound is fifty feet
in the baker 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.

and the whore

``big bottled fraulein, put your weight on me,'' the
to the whore,
Desperate for in his assault upon the mountain.
Little man, his a fountain.
Overdrafted and counting.
Vernacular, verbose; an 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 bell-end tears in the of her resistance.
International assistance flowing generous and
To his tool.
Pulls his over her wool.
And he as he comes.
And my rudder slowly me into the marylebone
Road.

Crash-barrier

And here slip I --- one foot in the gutter ---
In the midnight echo of the shop that cheap
Radios.
And there sits she --- no bed, no bread, no ---
On a double yellow line --- where she can anytime.
Old lady grey; waltzer ---
Some only son's mother. baker 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 bums allowed to sleep in the
emptiness.
Oh officer, let me send her to a hotel ---
pay the bill and make her well - like hell you
will!
No over kill. we must teach them
To be more independent.

england reverie

I no time for time magazine or rolling stone.
I no wish for wishing wells or wishing 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
in a public bar.
And it seems there's left for tennis; and i'm
A one-band-man.
And I want no top twenty funeral or a 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
This fire me?
One day I'll be a in the gallery.
And you a picture of the queen.
And if sometimes I to a cynical degree ---
It's just the 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 couldn't
For a one.
It's a real-life ripe dead ---
That I'm just a 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.
with cold 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 me on another line.

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

(I get out!)