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.
With flute hands.
Symphony match-seller, out of time.
You can call me on line.
Indian that curry my brain.
Newspaper warriors the names they

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.
Like to take her --- but I'm just a baker muse.

Ale-spew, puddle-brew --- boys, it up clean.
and bacardi colours them green.
From the typing pool goes the mini-skirted
With finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your burial is fifty feet
Down in the street underground. (what the hell!)
Walking down the 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 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 blandford
And
Proposition, deal. flying button feel. testing.
ever-bulging. dressed to the left, divulging
The of his years.
Wedding-bell fears.
bell-end tears in the pocket of her resistance.
International assistance flowing generous and
To his tool.
his eyes over her wool.
And he as he comes.
And my rudder turns me into the marylebone
Road.

waltzer

And here slip I --- dragging one in the gutter ---
In the midnight echo of the shop that cheap
Radios.
And sits she --- no bed, no bread, no butter ---
On a double line --- where she can park anytime.
Old grey; crash-barrier waltzer ---
only son's mother. baker street casualty.
Oh, mr. --- blue shirt ballet master.
Feet in sticking ---
Move the old on.
Strange ---
His to her juliet.
Her sleeping draught, his regret.
No drunken bums allowed to here in the
emptiness.
Oh officer, let me send her to a hotel ---
I'll pay the bill and make her well - like you
will!
No do-good over kill. we must teach
To be still independent.

england reverie

I have no time for time or rolling stone.
I have no wish for wishing or wishing bones.
I no house in the country I have no motor car.
And if you think I'm joking, then I'm a one-line
Joker in a bar.
And it seems there's no-body for tennis; and i'm
A one-band-man.
And I want no top funeral or a hundred grand.

There was a little boy stood on a log,
Rubbing his hands with glee. he said, mother england,
Did you light my smile; or did you
fire under 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 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 --- I couldn't wish
For a one.
It's a ripe dead certainty ---
I'm just a baker street muse.

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

restaurants that curry my brain ---
Newspaper warriors changing the they
from the station 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 --- with my baker ruse.
shake her --- with my baker street bruise.
Like to take her --- but I'm just a street muse.

(I get out!)