Baker St Muse

Jethro Tull - Baker St Muse from The Minstrel in the Gallery copied from https://www.tullianos.com/tullguitarpage/minstrelgallery.html [Intro] Dsus2 [Verse]   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. [Chorus] 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.        [Verse] 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 [Pygmy And The Whore] Big bottled fraulein put your weight on me Said the pygmy 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 in getting close to where he came from         in the doorway of the stars between Blandford Street and Mars proposition deal fly 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 --- N.C. that I’m just a Baker Street Muse. (I can’t get out!)