"Baker Street Muse" as written by and Ian Anderson....
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.

What the Hell?
I 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.

Walking down the gutter thinking, "How the Hell am I today?"
Well, I didn't really ask you but thanks all the same.


Big bottled Fraulein, put your weight on me," said the pig-me to the
Whore, desperate for more in his assault upon the mountain.
Little man, his youth a fountain. Overdrafted and still counting.
Vernacular, verbose; an attempt at getting close to where he came from.
In the doorway of the stars, between Blandford Street and Mars;
Proposition, deal. Flying button feel. Testicle testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. Dressed to the left, divulging the wrinkles of his
Years.
Wedding-bell induced fears.
Shedding bell-end tears in the pocket of her resistance.
International assistance flowing generous and full to his never-ready tool.
Pulls his eyes over her wool. And he shudders as he comes -
And my rudder slowly turns me into the Marylebone Road.



And here slip I - dragging one foot in the gutter -
In the midnight echo of the shop that sells cheap radios.
And there sits she - no bed, no bread nor butter -
On a double yellow line where she can park anytime.
Old Lady Grey; Crash-barrier Waltzer -
Some only son's mother. Baker Street casualty.
Oh, Mr. Policeman - blue shirt ballet master.
Feet in sticking plaster - Move the old lady on.
Strange pas-de-deux - His Romeo to her Juliet.
Her sleeping draught his poisoned regret.
No drunken bums allowed to sleep here in the crowded emptiness.
Oh officer, oh let me send her to a cheap hotel -
I'll pay the bill and make her well - like hell you bloody will!
No do-good over kill. We must teach them to be still more independent


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's said and all's done - 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 - I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
I'm just a Baker Street Muse. Just a Baker Street Muse.
Just a Baker Street Muse


Lyrics submitted by knate15

"Baker St. Muse" as written by Ian Anderson

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Baker Street Muse song meanings
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4 Comments

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  • 0
    General CommentRandom and whimsical observations about the odds and sodds inhabiting an old haunt of IA's. Very witty I'd like to add.
    kagemushaon February 11, 2005   Link
  • 0
    General CommentLast line is simply great. Last two actually.
    inpraiseoffollyon September 08, 2006   Link
  • 0
    General CommentOf course, this isn't the whole song. Oh well, I just submitted it, in full.
    inpraiseoffollyon October 01, 2006   Link
  • 0
    General CommentThis song and the whole Minstrel In the Gallery album were recorded during a time when Ian Anderson's first marriage was coming to an end, and the songs have a kind of wistful, somewhat melancholy feel to them. He takes a look at where he is and what he's become and this is a kind of poem about it all.

    The setting involves Ian Anderson walking down Baker Street in London and describing what he sees and where he sees himself in all of it. It's a gritty, kind of ugly picture. He sees scenes of sordid sexual encounters, drunks throwing up, and various faceless people. The middle section, Crash-barrier Waltzer, is one of the very best lyrical descriptions of his career. It's a poetic depiction of an encounter between a drunk old woman and a policeman. He compares it to ballet pas-de-deux, much like Romeo and Juliet, where the old woman, much like Juliet in the play, has fallen asleep, although her "sleeping draught" is alcohol. The policeman, much like Romeo, is struck with "poisoned regret" at the sight of her, although his version of regret is self-righteous anger instead of the romantic heartbreak of the original Romeo. The line "no drunken bums allowed to sleep here in the crowded emptiness" is pure genius. He's saying the the urban streets are crowded with people, and yet somehow empty at the same time - empty of meaning and substance. Everything is empty.

    The last portion is Ian Anderson summing up his life as an artist up to that point. The line about his having no time for time magazine or Rolling Stone may have something to do with the fact that Jethro Tull has been excluded from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. IA liked to express how he felt about the critics with obscene gestures at the time, and the feeling has been mutual with a lot of critics, even though songs like this one deserve a whole lot more critical acclaim than they have ever remotely received. The little boy standing on a burning log image is a kind of symbolic self-image in that same mold, with IA not being sure if Mother England likes him or wants to burn him.

    Another fantastic line comes near the end, where IA says "If sometimes I sing to a cynical degree, it's just the nonsense that it seems." He's dismissing himself and his own importance in a great gesture of irony, laughing at himself and the world in general.

    This is a tremendously thoughtful, evocative, and interesting kind of song that takes multiple listenings to really appreciate. That was one reason why a number of critics turned on Tull and Ian Anderson in the end, because they didn't want to have to think about what was being said in order to understand it, but I always thought that this song and the whole album were true genius, some of the best stuff ever written.
    JT1968on October 14, 2016   Link

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