Baker St Muse
Jethro Tull Lyrics


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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

Overall Meaning

The lyrics of "Baker St Muse" by Jethro Tull are a collection of observations and impressions of the world around the singer as he walks down Baker Street, London. The song is filled with vivid and surreal images, creating a sense of disorientation, confusion, and wonder. The first verses describe different people the singer encounters, such as a blind man playing a flute in the underpass and a match-seller with an out-of-sync rhythm. The singer also mentions Indian restaurants that "curry" his brain and newspaper warriors changing their names.


Later in the song, the lyrics become even more fragmented, and the images more surreal. The singer mentions a "Big bottled Fraulein" putting her weight on him, a "Pig-me" desperate for more, and a "Crash-barrier Waltzer" named Old Lady Grey. The song ends with the singer reflecting on his own life, expressing his dislike for popular culture and his desire to be a "minstrel in the gallery" and paint a picture of the queen.


Overall, "Baker St Muse" is a complex and introspective song that showcases Ian Anderson's talent as a lyricist, using surreal and impressionistic language to create a unique sense of place and mood.


Line by Line Meaning

Windy bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel.
Describing the scene of a street with sound and sight.


Shady gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
Observing a man's appearance and demeanor.


In the underpass, the blind man stands. With cold flute hands.
Depicting a blind street artist playing an instrument.


Symphony match-seller, breath out of time - You can call me on another line.
Comparing the street artist to a musician and offering a different way to contact the artist.


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.
Referencing the impact of society and media on the artist's thoughts and promising to be a source of inspiration.


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.
Admitting failure and expressing a desire for inspiration and creativity.


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.
Describing the sights, sounds, and actions of people on the street.


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.
Repeating the earlier lines about failure and desire for inspiration.


Walking down the gutter thinking, "How the Hell am I today?" Well, I didn't really ask you but thanks all the same.
Reflecting on the artist's state of mind and sarcastically acknowledging the audience's response.


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.
Painting a vivid portrait of a man's interactions with a prostitute.


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
Depicting the scene of a homeless woman and the singer's interaction with a police officer.


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.
Expressing the artist's disinterest in material possessions and mainstream culture, and describing his aspirations to be a musician and artist.


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.
Expressing contentment with oneself and acknowledging the role of a muse in the creative process.




Lyrics © BMG RIGHTS MANAGEMENT US, LLC
Written by: IAN ANDERSON

Lyrics Licensed & Provided by LyricFind
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