Luyện nghe bài hát Ice

With mercury mouth in the missionary times,
And your eyes smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
And your silver cross, and your like chimes,
Oh, who among do they think could bury you?
your pockets well protected at last,
And streetcar visions which you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk, and your face glass,
Who among do they think could carry 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, lady, should I wait?

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

The kings of with their convict list
Are in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it happen like this,
But who among really wants just to kiss you?
With childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and your plugs,
Who them do you think could resist you?
Sad-eyed of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my drums,
Should I leave 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 their side?
Oh, how could they ever mistake
They you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your and the phony false alarm,
And the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How could they ever, persuade 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, should I

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