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 your silver cross, and voice like chimes,
Oh, do they could bury you?
With pockets well protected at last,
And your streetcar visions which you on the grass,
And your flesh silk, and your face like glass,
Who could they get to you?

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

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

Sad-eyed of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet that no man comes,
My eyes, my Arabian drums,
I put them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I

The kings of with their convict list
Are in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it happen like this,
But who among them really wants just to kiss
your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your manners and your mother's drugs,
And your mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think could you?

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

Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, all did decide
To you the dead angels that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with side?
Oh, how could ever mistake you?
They wished 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 could they ever, ever persuade

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

With your sheet-metal memory of Row,
And magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just help but show,
Who among them do you think would employ
Now you stand with your thief, on his parole
With holy medallion which your fingertips fold,
And your saintlike and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them do you think could you?

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