Luyện nghe bài hát Sad - Eyed Lady of The Lowlands

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

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

With your sheets like metal and belt like lace,
And your deck of cards missing the and the ace,
And your basement and your hollow face,
Who among them can he could outguess you?
your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Into your 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 prophet says 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 waiting in for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would like this,
But who among them really just to kiss you?
your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your drugs,
And your cowboy and your curfew plugs,
Who them do you think could resist you?

lady 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?

Oh, the and the businessmen, they all did decide
To show you the angels that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their
Oh, how could they ever mistake
wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at feet and the phony false alarm,
And the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How could ever, ever persuade you?

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

With your sheet-metal of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband who one day had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you 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 your fold,
And your saintlike face and ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them do you could destroy 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, sad-eyed lady, I wait?