I have no time for Time Magazine or Rolling Stone. I have no wish for wishing we lls or wishing bones. And if you think I'm joking, then I'm just a one-line I ha ve no house in the country I have no motor car. And it seems there's no-body lef t for tennis; and I'm joker in a public bar. a one-band-man. And I want no Top Twenty funeral or a hundred grand. rubbing his hands with glee. He said, ``Oh M other England, There was a little boy stood on a burning log, did you light my s mile; or did you light this fire under me? One day I'll be a minstrel in the gal lery. And paint you a picture of the queen. it's just the nonsense that it seems .'' And if sometimes I sing to a cynical degree --- So I drift down through the Baker Street valley, in my steep-sided un-reality. for a better one. It's a rea l-life ripe dead certainty --- And when all is said and all is done --- I couldn 't wish that I'm just a Baker Street Muse. old way. Talking to the gutter-stink ing, winking in the same I tried to catch my eye but I looked the other way. Ind ian restaurants that curry my brain --- newspaper warriors changing the names th ey advertise from the station stand. Circumcised with cold print hands. Windy bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel. Shady gentleman. Fly-button. Feel. In the un derpass, the blind man stands. With cold flute hands. Symphony match-seller, bre ath out of time --- you can call me on another line. Couldn't shake her --- wit h my Baker Street Bruise. Didn't make her --- with my Baker Street Ruse. Like t o take her --- but I'm just a Baker Street Muse. (I can't get out!)
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