Luyện nghe bài hát Ice

With mercury mouth in the missionary times,
And your eyes like and your prayers like rhymes,
And your silver cross, and your voice chimes,
Oh, who among them do think could bury you?
your pockets well protected at last,
And your streetcar which you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk, and your like glass,
Who among them do think could carry you?
lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet that no man comes,
My eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I them by your gate,
Or, lady, should I wait?

With sheets like metal and your belt like lace,
And your deck of missing the jack and the ace,
And your basement clothes and hollow face,
Who among them can think he outguess you?
With your when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes the moonlight swims,
And your songs and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them try to impress you?
Sad-eyed of the lowlands,
the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my drums,
Should I leave them by gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, I wait?

The kings of Tyrus with convict list
Are in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it happen like this,
But who them really wants just to kiss you?
With childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and mother's drugs,
And your mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who them do you think could resist you?
Sad-eyed of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed says that no man comes,
My eyes, my Arabian drums,
I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, I wait?

Oh, the and the businessmen, they all did decide
To you where the dead angels are that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their
Oh, how could they ever you?
wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How could ever, ever persuade you?
Sad-eyed of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my drums,
I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I

With your memory of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband who one day had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you can't help but show,
Who among do you think would employ you?
Now you stand with your thief, you're on his
With your holy which your fingertips fold,
And your face and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them do you could destroy you
lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my drums,
Should I them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, I wait?