Jehtro Tull

Mother England Reverie



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!)