[Baker St. Muse]

(Baker St. Muse, take one.)
(Shit, shit, shit. Take two.)

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
(Oh, 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

[Pig-Me and the Whore]

"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 Marylebone Road

[Nice Little Tune (instrumental)]

[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 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, 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 overkill
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 —

[Baker St. Muse, redux]

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

(I'm just a Baker Street Muse...)
(I can't get out!)