Music.lt logo
TAVO STILIUS:
rock  /  heavy  /  alternative
pop  /  electro  /  hiphop  /  lt
Prisijunk
Prisimink / Pamiršau

Paprasčiausias būdas prisijungti - Facebook:

Prisijunk


Jau esi narys? Prisijunk:
Vartotojo vardas:
Slaptažodis:

Įprasta registracija:
Vartotojo vardas:
Slaptažodis: (bent 6 simboliai)
Pakartokite slaptažodį:
El. pašto adresas: (reikės patvirtinti)

Baker St. Muse


Jethro Tull


Patinka? Spausk ir pridėk prie mėgstamų! Man patinka!

Stilius: Roko muzika
Data: 1975 m.




Windy bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel.
Shady gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
In the underpass, the blind man stands.
With cold flute hands.
Symphony match-seller, breath out of time.
You can call me on another line.
Indian restaurants that curry my brain.
Newspaper warriors changing the names they advertise from the station stand.
With cold print hands.
Symphony word-player, I'll be your headline.
If you catch me another time.

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

Ale-spew, puddle-brew
boys, throw it up clean.
Coke and Bacardi colours them green.
From the typing pool goes the mini-skirted princess with great finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your burial mound is fifty feet down in the Baker Street underground. (What the hell!)
Walking down the gutter thinking,
"How the hell am I today?"

Well, I didn't really ask you but thanks all the same.


[Pig-Me And The Whore]

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


[Crash-Barrier Waltzer]

And here slip I
dragging one foot in the gutter
in the midnight echo of the shop that sells cheap radios.
And there sits she
no bed, no bread, no butter
on a double yellow line
where she can park anytime.
Old Lady Grey; crash-barrier waltzer
some only son's mother. Baker Street casualty.
Oh, Mr. Policeman
blue shirt ballet master.
Feet in sticking plaster
move the old lady on.
Strange pas-de-deux
his Romeo to her Juliet.
Her sleeping draught, his poisoned regret.
No drunken bums allowed to sleep here in the crowded emptiness.
Oh officer, let me send her to a cheap hotel
I'll pay the bill and make her well - like hell you bloody will!
No do-good over kill. We must teach them to be still more independent.


[Mother England Reverie]

I have no time for Time Magazine or Rolling Stone.
I have no wish for wishing wells or wishing bones.
I have no house in the country I have no motor car.
And if you think I'm joking, then I'm just a one-line joker in a public bar.
And it seems there's no-body left for tennis; and I'm a one-band-man.
And I want no Top Twenty funeral or a hundred grand.
There was a little boy stood on a burning log,
rubbing his hands with glee. He said, "Oh Mother England,
did you light my smile; or did you light this fire under me?
One day I'll be a minstrel in the gallery.
And paint you a picture of the queen.
And if sometimes I sing to a cynical degree
it's just the nonsense that it seems."

So I drift down through the Baker Street valley,
in my steep-sided un-reality.
And when all is said and all is done
I couldn't wish for a better one.
It's a real-life ripe dead certainty
that I'm just a Baker Street Muse.

Talking to the gutter-stinking, winking in the same old way.
I tried to catch my eye but I looked the other way.

Indian restaurants that curry my brain
newspaper warriors changing the names they advertise from the station stand.
Circumcised with cold print hands.

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

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

(I can't get out!)




Vertimai:
 2010-10-30  Alvydas1 - Jethro Tull - Baker Street'o Mūza (Baker Street Muse)

Susiję įrašai:
 2013-06-28  einaras13

Staugia sunkūs arkliai, ausų būgnelių pažeidimas Nr. 46

Esamas tekstas

Windy bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel.
Shady gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
In the underpass, the blind man stands.
With cold flute hands.
Symphony match-seller, breath out of time.
You can call me on another line.
Indian restaurants that curry my brain.
Newspaper warriors changing the names they advertise from the station stand.
With cold print hands.
Symphony word-player, I'll be your headline.
If you catch me another time.

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

Ale-spew, puddle-brew
boys, throw it up clean.
Coke and Bacardi colours them green.
From the typing pool goes the mini-skirted princess with great finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your burial mound is fifty feet down in the Baker Street underground. (What the hell!)
Walking down the gutter thinking,
"How the hell am I today?"

Well, I didn't really ask you but thanks all the same.


[Pig-Me And The Whore]

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


[Crash-Barrier Waltzer]

And here slip I
dragging one foot in the gutter
in the midnight echo of the shop that sells cheap radios.
And there sits she
no bed, no bread, no butter
on a double yellow line
where she can park anytime.
Old Lady Grey; crash-barrier waltzer
some only son's mother. Baker Street casualty.
Oh, Mr. Policeman
blue shirt ballet master.
Feet in sticking plaster
move the old lady on.
Strange pas-de-deux
his Romeo to her Juliet.
Her sleeping draught, his poisoned regret.
No drunken bums allowed to sleep here in the crowded emptiness.
Oh officer, let me send her to a cheap hotel
I'll pay the bill and make her well - like hell you bloody will!
No do-good over kill. We must teach them to be still more independent.


[Mother England Reverie]

I have no time for Time Magazine or Rolling Stone.
I have no wish for wishing wells or wishing bones.
I have no house in the country I have no motor car.
And if you think I'm joking, then I'm just a one-line joker in a public bar.
And it seems there's no-body left for tennis; and I'm a one-band-man.
And I want no Top Twenty funeral or a hundred grand.
There was a little boy stood on a burning log,
rubbing his hands with glee. He said, "Oh Mother England,
did you light my smile; or did you light this fire under me?
One day I'll be a minstrel in the gallery.
And paint you a picture of the queen.
And if sometimes I sing to a cynical degree
it's just the nonsense that it seems."

So I drift down through the Baker Street valley,
in my steep-sided un-reality.
And when all is said and all is done
I couldn't wish for a better one.
It's a real-life ripe dead certainty
that I'm just a Baker Street Muse.

Talking to the gutter-stinking, winking in the same old way.
I tried to catch my eye but I looked the other way.

Indian restaurants that curry my brain
newspaper warriors changing the names they advertise from the station stand.
Circumcised with cold print hands.

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

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

(I can't get out!)

Siūlomas pataisytas variantas

Pastabos

 

Komentarai (2)

Susijusi muzika: pasirinkti
PERŽIŪRĖTI
RAŠYTI
Suraskite ir pridėkite norimus kūrinius, albumus arba grupes:


Patvirtinti
psychedelic
2010 m. liepos 14 d. 00:12:53
Patinka? Spausk ir pridėk prie mėgstamų!
Įdomi daina, užkabina.

____________________
Kol dešimt kartų pamatuosi, kiti nupjaus :)
Atsakyti
Alvydas1
2009 m. balandžio 10 d. 19:05:57
Patinka? Spausk ir pridėk prie mėgstamų!
BAKER STREET‘O MŪZA

Vėjuota stotelė. Spragt. Vitrina. Kulnis.
Įtartinas ponas.Klyno saga. Čiuopiantis.
Požeminėje perėjoje aklas žmogus.
Fleitarankis, šąlantis nagus.
Simfodegtukų pardavėjau, atgyvena tu,
prisiskambink man numeriu kitu.

Indų restoranai kariu smegenis pudruoja,
laikraščių kariai vardais manipuliuoja,
reklamuodami juos kioskuose stočių.
Spaudarankiai, dvelkiantys šalčiu.
Simfožodžio muzikantai, būt antrašte galiu,
jei nutversit mane kitokiu metu.

Neprigavo jos Baker Steet‘o suktas guru.
Nesukrėčiau jos savo Baker Steet‘o guzu.
Norėčiau jos, bet esu Baker Street‘o Mūza.

Išgerto alaus balutės – viską išvėmėt, vyrai.
Bakardi su kokainu pažaliuoti prispyrė.
Iš modelių klano princesė pramina
labai rafinuotai su sijonėliu mini.
Naši žeme-motina, tavo kapo kauburys
penkiasdešimt pėdų po Baker Steet‘o Metro gilyn.
(Tai velniava!)
Einu prišnerkšta gatve ir mąstau:
„Kas, po velnių, su manimi šiandien?“
Neprašau būtinai atsakyti, bet dėkui vis vien.

____________________
Sielos polėkis, išmokantis skrist - Galimybės ribotos, bet pasiryžęs bandyt. Pink Floyd - Learning to Fly
Atsakyti
Susijusi muzika: pasirinkti
PERŽIŪRĖTI
RAŠYTI

Copyright 2001-2020 music.lt. Visos teisės saugomos. Kopijuoti be autorių sutikimo draudžiama.

Panaši muzika

Music.lt

Pokalbiai  Įvykiai 
  Daugiau

Informacija

  Šiuo metu naršo narių: 0
  Neregistruotų vartotojų: 162
  Iš viso užsiregistravę: 72742
  Naujausias narys: planets
  Šiandien apsilankė: 134852
Reklamos nekenčia: 8


My status  Music.lt Skype
Muzika per facebook  Music.lt Facebook