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
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
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.
circ*mcised with cold print hands.
windy bus-stop. click. shop-window. heel.
shady gentleman. fly-b*tton. feel.
in the underp*ss, 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!)