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

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

Didn't her --- with my baker street ruse.
Couldn't shake her --- with my street bruise.
to take 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 the mini-skirted princess
With finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your burial mound is fifty
in the baker street underground. (what the hell!)
Walking down the thinking,
the hell am I today? ''
Well, I didn't ask you but thanks 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.
Little man, his a fountain.
Overdrafted and 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.
Wallet ever-bulging. dressed to the left,
The of his years.
induced fears.
Shedding tears in the pocket of her resistance.
International assistance flowing and full
To his tool.
his eyes over her wool.
And he as he comes.
And my rudder slowly turns me into the
Road.

Crash-barrier

And here slip I --- dragging one 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 --- where she can park anytime.
Old lady grey; crash-barrier ---
Some only son's mother. street casualty.
Oh, mr. --- blue shirt ballet master.
Feet in sticking ---
the old lady on.
Strange ---
His to her juliet.
Her sleeping draught, his regret.
No drunken allowed to sleep here in the
emptiness.
Oh officer, let me send her to a hotel ---
I'll pay the bill and make her - like hell you
will!
No do-good kill. we must teach them
To be more independent.

Mother reverie

I have no time for time magazine or stone.
I have no wish for wishing wells or bones.
I have no in the country I have no motor car.
And if you think I'm joking, I'm just a one-line
in a public 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 on a burning log,
his hands with glee. he said, ``oh mother england,
Did you my smile; or did you light
This fire me?
One day be a minstrel in the gallery.
And you a picture of the queen.
And if sometimes I sing to a cynical ---
It's the nonsense that it seems.''

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

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

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

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

(I get out!)