Baker St. Muse (Medley) - 2002 Remaster
๐ต 4206 characters
โฑ๏ธ 16:39 duration
๐ ID: 6995648
๐ Lyrics
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
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
โฑ๏ธ Synced Lyrics
[00:31.57] Windy bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel.
[00:39.17] Shady gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
[00:46.98] In the underpass, the blind man stands. With cold flute hands.
[00:58.11] Symphony match-seller, breath out of time -
[01:03.46] You can call me on another line.
[01:10.26] Indian restaurants that curry my brain.
[01:17.98] Newspaper warriors changing the names they advertise from the station
[01:29.41] Stand. With cold print hands.
[01:36.85] Symphony word-player, I'll be your headline.
[01:42.14] If you catch me another time.
[01:49.89] Didn't make her - with my Baker Street Ruse.
[02:00.83] Couldn't shake her - with my Baker Street Bruise.
[02:10.98] Like to take her - I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
[02:22.72] Ale-spew, puddle-brew - boys, throw it up clean.
[02:30.27] Coke and Bacardi colours them green.
[02:37.88] From the typing pool goes the mini-skirted princess with great finesse.
[02:49.09] Fertile earth-mother, your burial mound is fifty feet down in the Baker
[02:56.15] Street underground.
[03:00.95] What the Hell?
[03:02.56] I didn't make her - with my Baker Street Ruse.
[03:12.58] Couldn't shake her - with my Baker Street Bruise.
[03:23.29] Like to take her - I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
[04:24.68] Walking down the gutter thinking,
[04:26.71] "How the Hell am I today?
[04:29.86] Well, I didn't really ask you but thanks all the same.
[05:12.94] Big bottled Fraulein, put your weight on me,
[05:17.60] " Said the pig-me to the
[05:19.09] Whore, desperate for more in his assault upon the mountain.
[05:27.16] Little man, his youth a fountain. Overdrafted and still counting.
[05:32.25] Vernacular, verbose; an attempt at getting close to where he came from.
[05:41.91] In the doorway of the stars, between Blandford Street and Mars;
[05:47.87] Proposition, deal. Flying button feel. Testicle testing.
[05:56.95] Wallet ever-bulging. Dressed to the left, divulging the wrinkles of his
[06:03.46] Years.
[06:05.45] Wedding-bell induced fears.
[06:07.86] Shedding bell-end tears in the pocket of her resistance.
[06:15.08] International assistance flowing generous and full to his never-ready tool.
[06:22.78] Pulls his eyes over her wool. And he shudders as he comes -
[06:28.93] And my rudder slowly turns me into the Marylebone Road.
[07:47.22] And here slip I - dragging one foot in the gutter -
[07:55.60] In the midnight echo of the shop that sells cheap radios.
[08:06.29] And there sits she - no bed, no bread nor butter -
[08:15.13] On a double yellow line where she can park anytime.
[08:25.22] Old Lady Grey; Crash-barrier Waltzer -
[08:33.79] Some only son's mother. Baker Street casualty.
[08:44.41] Oh, Mr. Policeman - blue shirt ballet master.
[08:53.38] Feet in sticking plaster - Move the old lady on.
[09:03.51] Strange pas-de-deux - His Romeo to her Juliet.
[09:12.16] Her sleeping draught his poisoned regret.
[09:23.07] No drunken bums allowed to sleep here in the crowded emptiness.
[09:32.68] Oh officer, oh let me send her to a cheap hotel -
[09:41.96] I'll pay the bill and make her well - like hell you bloody will!
[09:52.11] No do-good over kill. We must teach them to be still more independent
[10:54.72] I have no time for Time Magazine or Rolling Stone.
[11:11.16] I have no wish for wishing-wells or wishing bones.
[11:31.71] I have no house in the country I have no motor-car.
[11:48.56] And if you think I'm joking, then I'm just a one-line joker in a public
[11:58.33] Bar.
[12:05.06] And it seems there's no-body left for tennis; and I'm a one-band-man.
[12:22.41] And I want no Top Twenty funeral or a hundred grand.
[12:38.19] There was a little boy stood on a burning log, rubbing his hands with glee.
[12:49.51] He said,
[12:50.63] "Oh Mother England, did you light my smile; or did you light
[12:57.03] This fire under me?
[13:02.33] One day I'll be a minstrel in the gallery.
[13:08.67] And paint you a picture of the queen.
[13:14.76] And if sometimes I sing to a cynical degree -
[13:21.04] It's just the nonsense that it seems.
[13:27.34] So I drift down through the Baker Street valley, in my steep-sided
[13:34.55] Un-reality.
[13:38.96] And when all's said and all's done - couldn't wish for a better one.
[13:46.08] It's a real-life ripe dead-certainty - that I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
[13:56.13] Talking to the gutter-stinking, winking in the same old way.
[14:00.61] I tried to catch my eye but I looked the other way.
[14:07.55] Indian restaurants that curry my brain -
[14:15.35] Newspaper warriors changing the names they advertise from the station
[14:24.16] Stand. Circumcised with cold print hands.
[14:34.84] Windy bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel.
[14:42.56] Shady gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
[14:51.91] In the underpass, the blind man stands. With cold flute hands.
[15:00.58] Symphony match-seller, breath out of time -
[15:05.85] You can call me on another line.
[15:13.15] Didn't make her - with my Baker Street Ruse.
[15:21.66] Couldn't shake her - with my Baker Street Bruise.
[15:33.21] Like to take her - I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
[15:41.10] I'm just a Baker Street Muse. Just a Baker Street Muse.
[15:47.80] Just a Baker Street Muse
[15:56.45]
[00:39.17] Shady gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
[00:46.98] In the underpass, the blind man stands. With cold flute hands.
[00:58.11] Symphony match-seller, breath out of time -
[01:03.46] You can call me on another line.
[01:10.26] Indian restaurants that curry my brain.
[01:17.98] Newspaper warriors changing the names they advertise from the station
[01:29.41] Stand. With cold print hands.
[01:36.85] Symphony word-player, I'll be your headline.
[01:42.14] If you catch me another time.
[01:49.89] Didn't make her - with my Baker Street Ruse.
[02:00.83] Couldn't shake her - with my Baker Street Bruise.
[02:10.98] Like to take her - I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
[02:22.72] Ale-spew, puddle-brew - boys, throw it up clean.
[02:30.27] Coke and Bacardi colours them green.
[02:37.88] From the typing pool goes the mini-skirted princess with great finesse.
[02:49.09] Fertile earth-mother, your burial mound is fifty feet down in the Baker
[02:56.15] Street underground.
[03:00.95] What the Hell?
[03:02.56] I didn't make her - with my Baker Street Ruse.
[03:12.58] Couldn't shake her - with my Baker Street Bruise.
[03:23.29] Like to take her - I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
[04:24.68] Walking down the gutter thinking,
[04:26.71] "How the Hell am I today?
[04:29.86] Well, I didn't really ask you but thanks all the same.
[05:12.94] Big bottled Fraulein, put your weight on me,
[05:17.60] " Said the pig-me to the
[05:19.09] Whore, desperate for more in his assault upon the mountain.
[05:27.16] Little man, his youth a fountain. Overdrafted and still counting.
[05:32.25] Vernacular, verbose; an attempt at getting close to where he came from.
[05:41.91] In the doorway of the stars, between Blandford Street and Mars;
[05:47.87] Proposition, deal. Flying button feel. Testicle testing.
[05:56.95] Wallet ever-bulging. Dressed to the left, divulging the wrinkles of his
[06:03.46] Years.
[06:05.45] Wedding-bell induced fears.
[06:07.86] Shedding bell-end tears in the pocket of her resistance.
[06:15.08] International assistance flowing generous and full to his never-ready tool.
[06:22.78] Pulls his eyes over her wool. And he shudders as he comes -
[06:28.93] And my rudder slowly turns me into the Marylebone Road.
[07:47.22] And here slip I - dragging one foot in the gutter -
[07:55.60] In the midnight echo of the shop that sells cheap radios.
[08:06.29] And there sits she - no bed, no bread nor butter -
[08:15.13] On a double yellow line where she can park anytime.
[08:25.22] Old Lady Grey; Crash-barrier Waltzer -
[08:33.79] Some only son's mother. Baker Street casualty.
[08:44.41] Oh, Mr. Policeman - blue shirt ballet master.
[08:53.38] Feet in sticking plaster - Move the old lady on.
[09:03.51] Strange pas-de-deux - His Romeo to her Juliet.
[09:12.16] Her sleeping draught his poisoned regret.
[09:23.07] No drunken bums allowed to sleep here in the crowded emptiness.
[09:32.68] Oh officer, oh let me send her to a cheap hotel -
[09:41.96] I'll pay the bill and make her well - like hell you bloody will!
[09:52.11] No do-good over kill. We must teach them to be still more independent
[10:54.72] I have no time for Time Magazine or Rolling Stone.
[11:11.16] I have no wish for wishing-wells or wishing bones.
[11:31.71] I have no house in the country I have no motor-car.
[11:48.56] And if you think I'm joking, then I'm just a one-line joker in a public
[11:58.33] Bar.
[12:05.06] And it seems there's no-body left for tennis; and I'm a one-band-man.
[12:22.41] And I want no Top Twenty funeral or a hundred grand.
[12:38.19] There was a little boy stood on a burning log, rubbing his hands with glee.
[12:49.51] He said,
[12:50.63] "Oh Mother England, did you light my smile; or did you light
[12:57.03] This fire under me?
[13:02.33] One day I'll be a minstrel in the gallery.
[13:08.67] And paint you a picture of the queen.
[13:14.76] And if sometimes I sing to a cynical degree -
[13:21.04] It's just the nonsense that it seems.
[13:27.34] So I drift down through the Baker Street valley, in my steep-sided
[13:34.55] Un-reality.
[13:38.96] And when all's said and all's done - couldn't wish for a better one.
[13:46.08] It's a real-life ripe dead-certainty - that I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
[13:56.13] Talking to the gutter-stinking, winking in the same old way.
[14:00.61] I tried to catch my eye but I looked the other way.
[14:07.55] Indian restaurants that curry my brain -
[14:15.35] Newspaper warriors changing the names they advertise from the station
[14:24.16] Stand. Circumcised with cold print hands.
[14:34.84] Windy bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel.
[14:42.56] Shady gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
[14:51.91] In the underpass, the blind man stands. With cold flute hands.
[15:00.58] Symphony match-seller, breath out of time -
[15:05.85] You can call me on another line.
[15:13.15] Didn't make her - with my Baker Street Ruse.
[15:21.66] Couldn't shake her - with my Baker Street Bruise.
[15:33.21] Like to take her - I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
[15:41.10] I'm just a Baker Street Muse. Just a Baker Street Muse.
[15:47.80] Just a Baker Street Muse
[15:56.45]