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baker st muse (medley) - 2002 remastered version - jethro tull lyrics

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windy bus-stop. click. shop-window. heel

shady gentleman. fly-b-tton. feel

in the underp-ss, 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

c-ke 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 h-ll?

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 h-ll 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

wh-r-, desperate for more in his -ssault 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 b-tton feel. t-st-cl- 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 -ssistance 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 b-tter –

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 b-ms 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 h-ll you bl–dy will!

no do-good over k!ll. 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. circ-mcised with cold print hands

windy bus-stop. click. shop-window. heel

shady gentleman. fly-b-tton. feel

in the underp-ss, 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

- jethro tull lyrics

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