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 motorcar
And if you think I'm joking then I'm just a one-line joker in a public bar
And it seems there's nobody 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, 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 hand
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

I'm just a Baker Street muse
I can't get out