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 restaurants that my brain.
Newspaper changing the names they

Advertise the station stand.
With print hands.
word-player, I'll be your headline.
If you catch me time.

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.

Ale-spew, puddle-brew --- boys, it up clean.
Coke and colours them green.
From the typing pool goes the mini-skirted
great finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your burial mound is feet
in the baker street underground. (what the hell!)
Walking the gutter thinking,
the hell am I today? ''
Well, I didn't ask you but thanks all the same.

and the whore

``big bottled fraulein, put weight on me,'' said the
to the whore,
Desperate for more in his assault 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. button feel. testicle testing.
ever-bulging. dressed to the left, divulging
The of his years.
induced fears.
Shedding bell-end 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 the marylebone
Road.

Crash-barrier

And here slip I --- dragging one foot in the ---
In the midnight echo of the that sells cheap
Radios.
And there sits she --- no bed, no bread, no ---
On a double yellow --- where she can park anytime.
Old grey; crash-barrier waltzer ---
Some only son's mother. baker 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 her to a cheap hotel ---
pay the bill and make her well - like hell you
will!
No do-good over kill. we must teach
To be more independent.

Mother reverie

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

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

So I drift down the baker street valley,
In my un-reality.
And all is said and all is done --- I couldn't wish
For a one.
It's a real-life ripe certainty ---
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 looked the way.

restaurants that curry my brain ---
Newspaper warriors changing the names
from the station stand.
Circumcised with print hands.

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.

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

(I get out!)