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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 unreality.
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
NNwspaper 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 but I'm just a Baker Street Muse.

(I can't get out!)

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