Luyện nghe bài hát Sad - Eyed Lady of The Lowlands

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

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

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

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

The kings of Tyrus with their convict
Are waiting in line for their kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would happen this,
But who among really wants just to kiss you?
With your childhood flames on midnight rug,
And your Spanish and your mother's drugs,
And your mouth and your curfew plugs,
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 them by your gate,
Or, lady, should I wait?

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

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

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