Luyện nghe bài hát Sad - Eyed Lady of The Lowlands

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

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

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

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

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

lady of the lowlands,
Where the prophet says that no man comes,
My eyes, my Arabian 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 angels that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize their side?
Oh, how they ever mistake you?
wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your and the phony false alarm,
And with the of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How could ever, ever persuade you?

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

your sheet-metal 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 would you?
Now you stand your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which fingertips fold,
And your saintlike face and your soul,
Oh, who among them do you could destroy you?

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?