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 warriors changing the names

from the station stand.
With print hands.
Symphony word-player, be your headline.
If you me another 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, --- boys, throw it up clean.
Coke and colours them green.
From the typing pool goes the princess
With finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your burial mound is feet
Down in the baker underground. (what the hell!)
down the gutter thinking,
``how the hell am I ''
Well, I didn't really ask you but all the same.

and the whore

``big fraulein, put your 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 attempt at close to
he came from.
In the of the stars, between blandford street
And
Proposition, deal. flying feel. testicle testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. to the left, divulging
The of his years.
induced fears.
Shedding tears in the pocket of her resistance.
International flowing generous and full
To his tool.
Pulls his over her wool.
And he as he comes.
And my rudder slowly turns me the marylebone
Road.

waltzer

And here slip I --- dragging one foot in the ---
In the echo of the shop that sells cheap
Radios.
And sits she --- no bed, no bread, no butter ---
On a yellow line --- where she can park anytime.
Old grey; crash-barrier waltzer ---
only son's mother. baker street casualty.
Oh, mr. policeman --- shirt ballet master.
Feet in plaster ---
the old lady on.
Strange ---
His to her juliet.
Her draught, his poisoned regret.
No drunken bums to sleep here in the
emptiness.
Oh officer, let me send her to a cheap ---
I'll pay the bill and her well - like hell you
will!
No do-good over kill. we teach them
To be more independent.

england reverie

I have no for time magazine or rolling stone.
I have no wish for wells or wishing bones.
I have no house in the I have no motor car.
And if you think I'm joking, then I'm just a
in a public bar.
And it seems there's no-body left for and i'm
A one-band-man.
And I no top twenty funeral or a hundred grand.

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

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

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

restaurants that curry my brain ---
Newspaper warriors changing the they
Advertise from the stand.
Circumcised cold print hands.

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.

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

(I get out!)