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 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