Luyện nghe bài hát Sad - Eyed Lady of The Lowlands

With your mercury in the missionary times,
And eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
And silver cross, and your voice like chimes,
Oh, do they could bury you?
With your well protected at last,
And your streetcar which you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk, and your 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 belt like lace,
And your deck of missing the jack and the ace,
And your clothes and your hollow face,
Who among them can he could outguess you?
With your silhouette when the dims
Into your eyes the moonlight swims,
And your match-book and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them would try to you?

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

The kings of Tyrus their convict list
Are in line for their geranium kiss,
And you know it would happen like this,
But who among really wants just to kiss you?
With your childhood on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and mother's drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and curfew plugs,
Who among them do you could resist you?

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

Oh, the and the businessmen, they all did decide
To you the dead angels that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their
Oh, how they ever mistake you?
They wished you'd accepted the for the farm,
But the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How they 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 memory of Row,
And magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just can't but show,
Who among do you think would employ you?
Now you with your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which fingertips fold,
And saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among do you think could destroy you?

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