Luyện nghe bài hát Sad - Eyed Lady of The Lowlands

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

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

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

lady 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, I wait?

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 really wants just to kiss you?
With your flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your drugs,
And your mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think resist you?

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?

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

Sad-eyed of the lowlands,
the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My eyes, my Arabian drums,
I leave 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 gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
Who among do you think would employ you?
Now you stand your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which your fold,
And your saintlike and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who them do you think could destroy you?

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