Luyện nghe bài hát Sad - Eyed Lady of The Lowlands

With your mercury in the missionary times,
And your eyes like smoke and prayers like rhymes,
And silver cross, and your voice like chimes,
Oh, do they think bury you?
With pockets well protected 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

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, lady, should I wait?

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

Sad-eyed 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

The kings of Tyrus with their convict
Are waiting in line for their kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would like this,
But who among them really just to kiss you?
With childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think could 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, sad-eyed lady, I wait?

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

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

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

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