Luyện nghe bài hát Ice

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

With your sheets like metal and your belt lace,
And your deck of cards the jack and the ace,
And your clothes and your hollow face,
Who among them can think he could outguess
With your when the sunlight dims
your eyes 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 says no man comes,
My eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, I wait?

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

Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did
To show you where the dead angels are that they to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their
Oh, how could they ever you?
They wished you'd accepted the 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 they ever, persuade you?
Sad-eyed of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed says that no man comes,
My eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I them by your gate,
Or, lady, should I wait?

your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
And magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just can't but show,
Who among them do you would employ you?
Now you stand your thief, you're on his parole
With holy medallion which your 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 says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my drums,
I leave them by your gate,
Or, lady, should I wait?