Luyện nghe bài hát Ice

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

With your like metal and your belt like lace,
And your of cards missing the jack and the ace,
And basement clothes and your hollow face,
Who among can think he could outguess you?
your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes the moonlight swims,
And match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them try to impress you?
Sad-eyed of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my drums,
Should I leave by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, I wait?

The kings of with their convict list
Are in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would happen this,
But who among them wants just to kiss you?
With your childhood flames on your rug,
And Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
And cowboy mouth and your 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 warehouse eyes, my drums,
Should I leave them by 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 their side?
Oh, how could they ever you?
They wished you'd accepted the for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony alarm,
And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in arms,
How could they ever, persuade you?
lady 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

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 would employ
Now you stand with thief, you're on his parole
With your holy which your fingertips fold,
And your saintlike face and your 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?