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 like chimes,
Oh, who among them do they could bury you?
With pockets well protected at last,
And streetcar visions which you place on the grass,
And flesh like silk, and your face like glass,
Who them do they think could carry you?
lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says no man comes,
My eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, I wait?

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

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

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

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