Luyện nghe bài hát Ice

With mercury mouth in the missionary times,
And your eyes like smoke and your prayers rhymes,
And your silver cross, and voice like chimes,
Oh, who them do they think could bury you?
your pockets well protected at last,
And your streetcar visions you place on the grass,
And your like silk, and your face like glass,
Who among them do think could carry you?
lady of the lowlands,
Where the prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my drums,
Should I leave by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, I wait?

With your sheets like metal and your like lace,
And deck of cards missing the jack and the ace,
And your clothes and your hollow face,
Who among can think he could outguess you?
With your silhouette when the dims
your eyes where the moonlight swims,
And match-book songs and your gypsy 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,
Should I them by your gate,
Or, lady, should I wait?

The kings of Tyrus with their list
Are waiting in line for their kiss,
And you wouldn't it would happen like this,
But who among them really wants just to kiss
With your flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish 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 eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I them by your gate,
Or, lady, should 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 you to sympathize with their side?
Oh, how could they ever mistake
They you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the 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 eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave by your 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 among do you think would employ you?
Now you stand your thief, you're on his parole
With your medallion which your fingertips fold,
And your saintlike face and ghostlike soul,
Oh, who them do you think could destroy you
Sad-eyed of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says no man comes,
My eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I