Luyện nghe bài hát Ice

With your mercury mouth in the times,
And your eyes like smoke and prayers like rhymes,
And your cross, and your voice like chimes,
Oh, who among them do they think could bury
With your pockets well at last,
And your streetcar which you place on the grass,
And your like silk, and your face like 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 leave by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I

your sheets like metal and your belt like lace,
And your deck of missing the jack and the ace,
And your clothes and your hollow face,
Who them can think he could outguess you?
With your silhouette the sunlight dims
Into your eyes where the 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 by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I

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

Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, all did decide
To show you where the angels are that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their
Oh, how they ever mistake you?
They you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the child of a wrapped up in your arms,
How could ever, ever persuade 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?

your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
And your who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, you just can't help 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 fingertips fold,
And your saintlike face and ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among do you think could destroy you
lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my drums,
Should I leave by your gate,
Or, lady, should I wait?