Baker St Muse (Medley) (Remastered) - Jethro Tull

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.

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.

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.

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, 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

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'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.

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