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!)