Luyện nghe bài hát Ice

With your mouth in the missionary times,
And your eyes like and your prayers like rhymes,
And your cross, and your voice like chimes,
Oh, who among do they think could bury you?
your pockets well protected at last,
And your streetcar visions you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk, and your like glass,
Who them 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 them by gate,
Or, lady, should I wait?

your sheets like metal and your belt like lace,
And your deck of cards missing the and the ace,
And basement clothes and your hollow face,
Who them can think he could outguess you?
With your when the sunlight dims
Into eyes where the moonlight swims,
And your match-book songs and gypsy hymns,
Who among them would try to 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, lady, should I wait?

The kings of Tyrus with their list
Are waiting in for their geranium kiss,
And you know 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 cowboy mouth and curfew plugs,
Who among do you think could resist you?
Sad-eyed of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed 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 show you where the dead angels are that they to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with side?
Oh, how could they ever you?
wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your and the phony false alarm,
And the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How they ever, ever persuade you?
lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet that no man comes,
My eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I

With your memory of Cannery Row,
And magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your now, which you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think employ you?
Now you with your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which fingertips fold,
And your face and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who them do you think could destroy 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?