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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!)
