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 --- 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-b_tton. 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 --- but I'm just a Baker Street Muse.