Luyện nghe bài hát Baker St. Muse

bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel.
gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
In the underpass, the blind man stands. With cold hands.
match-seller, breath out of time -
You can me on another line.

Indian that curry my brain.
Newspaper warriors changing the names they advertise the station
Stand. With print hands.
Symphony word-player, be your headline.
If you me another time.

Didn't her - with my Baker Street Ruse.
Couldn't shake her - with my Baker Bruise.
Like to take her - I'm a Baker Street Muse.

Ale-spew, - boys, throw it up clean.
Coke and colours them green.
From the typing pool goes the mini-skirted princess great finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your burial is fifty feet down in the Baker
underground.

What the
I didn't make her - with my Street Ruse.
Couldn't shake her - with my Baker Bruise.
Like to take her - I'm just a Baker Muse.

down the gutter thinking, "How the Hell am I today?"
Well, I didn't really ask you but all the same.

Big bottled Fraulein, put your on me," said the pig-me to the
Whore, for more in his assault upon the mountain.
Little man, his a fountain. Overdrafted and still counting.
Vernacular, verbose; an at getting close to where he came from.
In the doorway of the stars, between Blandford Street and
Proposition, deal. button feel. Testicle testing.
ever-bulging. Dressed to the left, divulging the wrinkles of his
Years.
Wedding-bell fears.
Shedding bell-end in the pocket of her resistance.
assistance flowing generous and full to his never-ready tool.
Pulls his eyes over her wool. And he shudders as he -
And my slowly turns me into the Marylebone Road.

And slip I - dragging one foot in the gutter -
In the midnight echo of the shop that cheap radios.
And there sits she - no bed, no bread nor -
On a double yellow where she can park anytime.
Old Grey; Crash-barrier Waltzer -
Some son's mother. Baker Street casualty.
Oh, Mr. Policeman - shirt ballet master.
Feet in plaster - Move the old lady on.
pas-de-deux - His Romeo to her Juliet.
Her draught his poisoned regret.
No drunken bums allowed to sleep here in the emptiness.
Oh officer, oh let me send her to a cheap -
I'll pay the and make her well - like hell you bloody will!
No do-good over kill. We must teach them to be still independent

I have no time for Time or Rolling Stone.
I have no wish for wishing-wells or bones.
I have no house in the I have no motor-car.
And if you think I'm joking, then I'm just a joker in a public
Bar.
And it there's no-body left for tennis; and I'm a one-band-man.
And I no Top Twenty funeral or a hundred grand.
was a little boy stood on a burning log, rubbing his hands with glee.
He said, "Oh Mother England, did you my smile; or did you light
fire under me?
One day be a minstrel in the gallery.
And paint you a of the queen.
And if I sing to a cynical degree -
It's just the nonsense it seems.
So I drift down the Baker Street valley, in my steep-sided
Un-reality.

And when all's said and all's done - couldn't for a better one.
a real-life ripe dead-certainty - that I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
Talking to the gutter-stinking, in the same old way.
I tried to catch my eye but I looked the way.

Indian restaurants curry my brain -
Newspaper warriors changing the they advertise from the station
Stand. Circumcised with print hands.

bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel.
gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
In the underpass, the blind man stands. With cold hands.
Symphony match-seller, breath out of -
You can me on another line.

make her - with my Baker Street Ruse.

Couldn't shake her - with my Baker Bruise.
to take her - I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
I'm just a Baker Street Muse. Just a Baker Muse.
a Baker Street Muse