Jethro Tull — Baker St Muse

[Baker St. Muse] (Baker St. Muse, take one.) (Shit, shit, shit. Take two.) 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 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 (Oh, what the hell?) I didn't make her With my Baker Street Ruse Couldn't shake her With my Baker Street Bruise Like to take her I'm just a Baker Street Muse 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 [Nice Little Tune (instrumental)] [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 nor 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 — [Baker St. Muse, redux] 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 — I'm just a Baker Street Muse I'm just a Baker Street Muse Just a Baker Street Muse Just a Baker Street Muse (I'm just a Baker Street Muse...) (I can't get out!)