I have no time for Time Magazine or Rolling Stone. I have no wish for wishing wells or wishing bones. And if you think I'm joking, then I'm just a one-line I have no house in the country I have no motor car. And it seems there's no-body left for tennis; and I'm joker in a public bar. a one-band-man. And I want no Top Twenty funeral or a hundred grand. rubbing his hands with glee. He said, ''Oh Mother England, There was a little boy stood on a burning log, 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. it's just the nonsense that it seems.'' And if sometimes I sing to a cynical degree --- So I drift down through the Baker Street valley, in my steep-sided un-reality. for a better one. It's a real-life ripe dead certainty --- And when all is said and all is done --- I couldn't wish that I'm just a Baker Street Muse. old way. Talking to the gutter-stinking, winking in the same 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. Couldn't shake her --- with my Baker Street Bruise. Didn't make her --- with my Baker Street Ruse. Like to take her --- but I'm just a Baker Street Muse. (I can't get out!)