Luyện nghe bài hát Sad - Eyed Lady of The Lowlands

With your mercury mouth in the times,
And your like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
And silver cross, and your voice like chimes,
Oh, do they think could bury
With your well protected at last,
And your streetcar visions you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk, and your face glass,
Who could they get to you?

Sad-eyed of the lowlands,
Where the prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my drums,
Should I put them by gate,
Or, lady, should I wait?

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

lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says no man comes,
My eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I put by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, I wait?

The kings of Tyrus their convict list
Are in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would happen this,
But who among them really wants just to you?
With your childhood on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your drugs,
And your 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 eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, I wait?

Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, all did decide
To show you the angels that they used to hide.
But why did they you to sympathize with their side?
Oh, how could ever mistake you?
They wished accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony 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 prophet that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my drums,
I leave them by your gate,
Or, lady, should I wait?

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

Sad-eyed of the lowlands,
Where the prophet says that no man comes,
My eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, I wait?