Luyện nghe bài hát Ice

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

With your like metal and your belt like lace,
And your deck of cards 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 eyes where the moonlight swims,
And your match-book and your gypsy hymns,
Who among would 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 of Tyrus with their convict list
Are waiting in line for geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would happen this,
But who among really wants just to kiss you?
With your childhood flames on your rug,
And Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
And your cowboy and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you could resist you?
lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my drums,
I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I

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

With your sheet-metal memory of Row,
And your magazine-husband who one day had to go,
And your gentleness now, you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think employ you?
Now you stand with your thief, you're on his
With your medallion which your fingertips fold,
And your saintlike and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them do you could destroy 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, sad-eyed lady, should I