Luyện nghe bài hát Ice

With your mercury in the missionary times,
And your eyes like and your prayers like rhymes,
And your silver cross, and voice like chimes,
Oh, who among them do they could bury you?
With your well protected at last,
And your visions which you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk, and 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 eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I them by your gate,
Or, lady, should I wait?

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

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

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

With your sheet-metal memory of Row,
And magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your now, which 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 your fold,
And saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them do you think could you
lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says no man comes,
My eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave by your gate,
Or, lady, should I wait?