Jethro Tull — Baker Street Muse

('Baker Street 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, 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, oh 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 nobody 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's said and all's done Couldn't wish for a better one — It's a real-life ripe dead-certainty That I'm just a Baker Street muse Hopping through 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 (Well I'm just a Baker Street muse… I can't get out!)