Baker Street Muse Jethro Tull

('Baker Street 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?)