JETHRO TULL
Minstrel In The Gallery
(1975)
1. Minstrel In The Gallery 8'13
2. Cold Wind To Valhalla 4'20
3. Black Satin Dancer 6'52
4. Requiem 3'45
5. One White Duck • 010=Nothing At All 4'38
6. Baker St Muse: 16'39
7. Grace 0'51
Bonus Tracks
8. Summerday Sands 3'44
9. March The Mad Scientist 1'49
10. Pan Dance 3'26
11. Minstrel In The Gallery (live) 2'12
12. Cold Wind To Valhalla (live) 1'30
Total Time: 57:59
Ian Anderson - Sang and played on Acoustic Guitar and Flute
Martin Barre - played Electric Guitar
John Evan - played Piano and Organ
Jeffrey Hammond-Hammond - played Bass Guitar, String Bass
Barriemore Barlow - played Drums and Percussion
Violins:
Patrick Halling - Leader
Rita Eddowes
Elizabeth Edwards
Bridget Procter
Cello:
Katharine Thulborn
Conductor:
David Palmer
Arrangements for Orchestra were Written by David Palmer
Produced by Ian Anderson for FIVE STAR RECORDS Ltd.
Engineer: Robin Black
Photographs taken by Brian Ward
Front Cover Artwork by Ron Kriss • J. E. Garnett
based on a Print by Joseph Nash
Violins:
Cello:
Conductor:
Arrangements for Orchestra were Written by David Palmer
Songs by Ian Anderson
Arranged by JETHRO TULL
Recorded and Mixed somewhere in Europe by
The MAISON ROUGE MOBILE STUDIO
1. Minstrel In The Gallery
The minstrel in the gallery looked down upon the
smiling faces.
He met the gazes observed the spaces between the
old men's cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred oblique
suggestions and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters static-humming
panel-beaters freshly day-glow'd factory cheaters
(salaried and collar-scrubbing).
He titillated men-of-action belly warming, hands
still rubbing on the parts they never mention.
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating
one-line jokers T.V. documentary makers
(overfed and undertakers).
Sunday paper backgammon players family-scarred
and women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage and he
looked at all the friends he'd made.
The minstrel in the gallery looked down on the
rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass - saw his face in
everyone.
2. Cold Wind To Valhalla
And ride with us young bonny lass
with the angels of the night.
Crack wind clatter flesh rein bite on an out-size
unicorn.
Rough-shod winging sky blue flight on a cold wind
to Valhalla.
And join with us please Valkyrie maidens cry
above the cold wind to Valhalla.
Break fast with the gods. Night angels serve
with ice-bound majesty.
Frozen flaking fish raw nerve
in a cup of silver liquid fire.
Moon jet brave beam split ceiling swerve and light
the old Valhalla.
Come join with us please Valkyrie maidens cry
above the cold wind to Valhalla.
The heroes rest upon the sighs of Thor's trusty
hand maidens.
Midnight lonely whisper cries,
We're getting a bit short on heroes lately.''
Sword snap fright white pale goodbyes in the
desolation of Valhalla.
And join with us please Valkyrie maidens ride
empty-handed on the cold wind to Valhalla.
3. Black Satin Dancer
Come, let me play with you, black satin dancer.
In all your giving, given is the answer.
Tearing life from limb and looking sweeter than the
brightest flower in my garden.
Begging your pardon shedding right unreason.
Over sensation fly the fleeting seasons.
Thin wind whispering on broken mandolin.
Bending the minutes the hours ever turning on that
old gold story of mercy.
Desperate breathing. Tongue nipple-teasing.
Your fast river flowing your northern fire fed.
Come, black satin dancer, come softly to bed.
4. Requiem
Well, I saw a bird today flying from a bush and the
wind blew it away.
And the black-eyed mother sun scorched the butterfly
at play velvet veined.
I saw it burn.
With a wintry storm-blown sigh, a silver cloud blew
right on by.
And, taking in the morning, I sang O Requiem.
Well, my lady told me, ``Stay.''
I looked aside and walked away along the Strand.
But I didn't say a word, as the train time-table blurred
close behind the taxi stand.
Saw her face in the tear-drop black cab window.
Fading in the traffic; watched her go.
And taking in the morning, heard myself singing
O Requiem.
Here I go again.
It's the same old story.
Well, I saw a bird today I looked aside and walked
away along the Strand.
5. One White Duck • 010=Nothing At All
There's a haze on the skyline, to wish me on my way.
And there's a note on the telephone some roses on a
tray.
And the motorway's stretching right out to us all,
as I pull on my old wings one white duck
on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
I'll catch a ride on your violin strung upon your bow.
And I'll float on your melody sing your chorus soft
and low.
There's a picture-view postcard to say that I called.
You can see from the fireplace, one white duck
on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
So fly away Peter and fly away Paul from the
finger-tip ledge of contentment.
The long restless rustle of high-heeled boots calls.
And I'm probably bound to deceive you after all.
Something must be wrong with me and my brain
if I'm so patently unrewarding.
But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that
way and my zero to your power of ten equals
nothing at all.
There's no double-lock defense; there's no chain on my door.
I'm available for consultation,
But remember your way in is also my way out, and
love's four-letter word is no compensation.
Well, I'm the Black Ace dog-handler: I'm a waiter on
skates so don't you jump to your foreskin conclusion.
Because I'm up to my deaf ears in cold breakfast trays
to be cleared before I can dine on your sweet Sunday
lunch confusion.
6. Baker St Muse
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 but 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!)
Walking down the gutter thinking,
How the hell am I today?''
Well, I didn't really ask you but thanks all the same.
Pig-Me And The Whore
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.
Crash-Barrier Waltzer
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, no 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, 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.
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 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 is said and all is done I 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 s
7. Grace
Hello sun.
Hello bird.
Hello my lady.
Hello breakfast.
May I buy you again tomorrow ?
8. Summerday Sands
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lay together on the summerday sands.
I gave her my raincoat and told her, ``Lady, be good!''
And we made truth together, where no one else would.
I smiled through her fingers and ran the dust through her hands
the hour-glass of reason on the summerday sands.
We sat as the sea caught fire.
Waited as the flames grew higher
in her eyes.
We watched the eagle born
wings clipped, tail feathers shorn
but we saw him rise
over summerday sands.
Came the ten o'clock curfew.
She said, ``I must start my car.
I'm staying with someone I met last night in a bar.''
I called from my wave top
At least tell me your name!''
She smiled from her wheelspin
and said, ``It's all the same.''
I thought for a minute, jumped back on dry land
left one set of footprints on the summerday sands.
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lied together on the summerday sands.
9. March The Mad Scientist
What would you like for Christmas
a new polarity?
You're binary, and desperate to deal
in high figures
that lick us with their hotter flame
lick each and everyone the same.
And March, the mad scientist,
rings a new change
in ever-dancing colours.
He rings it here and he rings it...
but no one stops to see
the change of fate and the fate of change
that slips into his pocket
so he locks it all away from view
and shares not what he thought you knew.
And April is summer-bound,
And February's blue.
And no one stops to see the colours.
10. Pan Dance
(instrumental)
He met the gazes observed the spaces between the old men's cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred oblique suggestions and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters static-humming panel-beaters freshly day-glow'd factory cheaters (salaried and collar-scrubbing).
He titillated men-of-action belly warming, hands still rubbing on the parts they never mention.
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating one-line jokers T.V. documentary makers
(overfed and undertakers).
Sunday paper backgammon players family-scarred and women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage and he looked at all the friends he'd made.
The minstrel in the gallery looked down on the rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass - saw his face in everyone.
2. Cold Wind To Valhalla
And ride with us young bonny lass
with the angels of the night.
Crack wind clatter flesh rein bite on an out-size
unicorn.
Rough-shod winging sky blue flight on a cold wind
to Valhalla.
And join with us please Valkyrie maidens cry
above the cold wind to Valhalla.
Break fast with the gods. Night angels serve
with ice-bound majesty.
Frozen flaking fish raw nerve
in a cup of silver liquid fire.
Moon jet brave beam split ceiling swerve and light
the old Valhalla.
Come join with us please Valkyrie maidens cry
above the cold wind to Valhalla.
The heroes rest upon the sighs of Thor's trusty
hand maidens.
Midnight lonely whisper cries,
We're getting a bit short on heroes lately.''
Sword snap fright white pale goodbyes in the
desolation of Valhalla.
And join with us please Valkyrie maidens ride
empty-handed on the cold wind to Valhalla.
3. Black Satin Dancer
Come, let me play with you, black satin dancer.
In all your giving, given is the answer.
Tearing life from limb and looking sweeter than the
brightest flower in my garden.
Begging your pardon shedding right unreason.
Over sensation fly the fleeting seasons.
Thin wind whispering on broken mandolin.
Bending the minutes the hours ever turning on that
old gold story of mercy.
Desperate breathing. Tongue nipple-teasing.
Your fast river flowing your northern fire fed.
Come, black satin dancer, come softly to bed.
4. Requiem
Well, I saw a bird today flying from a bush and the
wind blew it away.
And the black-eyed mother sun scorched the butterfly
at play velvet veined.
I saw it burn.
With a wintry storm-blown sigh, a silver cloud blew
right on by.
And, taking in the morning, I sang O Requiem.
Well, my lady told me, ``Stay.''
I looked aside and walked away along the Strand.
But I didn't say a word, as the train time-table blurred
close behind the taxi stand.
Saw her face in the tear-drop black cab window.
Fading in the traffic; watched her go.
And taking in the morning, heard myself singing
O Requiem.
Here I go again.
It's the same old story.
Well, I saw a bird today I looked aside and walked
away along the Strand.
5. One White Duck • 010=Nothing At All
There's a haze on the skyline, to wish me on my way.
And there's a note on the telephone some roses on a
tray.
And the motorway's stretching right out to us all,
as I pull on my old wings one white duck
on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
I'll catch a ride on your violin strung upon your bow.
And I'll float on your melody sing your chorus soft
and low.
There's a picture-view postcard to say that I called.
You can see from the fireplace, one white duck
on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
So fly away Peter and fly away Paul from the
finger-tip ledge of contentment.
The long restless rustle of high-heeled boots calls.
And I'm probably bound to deceive you after all.
Something must be wrong with me and my brain
if I'm so patently unrewarding.
But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that
way and my zero to your power of ten equals
nothing at all.
There's no double-lock defense; there's no chain on my door.
I'm available for consultation,
But remember your way in is also my way out, and
love's four-letter word is no compensation.
Well, I'm the Black Ace dog-handler: I'm a waiter on
skates so don't you jump to your foreskin conclusion.
Because I'm up to my deaf ears in cold breakfast trays
to be cleared before I can dine on your sweet Sunday
lunch confusion.
6. Baker St Muse
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 but 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!)
Walking down the gutter thinking,
How the hell am I today?''
Well, I didn't really ask you but thanks all the same.
Pig-Me And The Whore
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.
Crash-Barrier Waltzer
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, no 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, 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.
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 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 is said and all is done I 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 s
7. Grace
Hello sun.
Hello bird.
Hello my lady.
Hello breakfast.
May I buy you again tomorrow ?
8. Summerday Sands
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lay together on the summerday sands.
I gave her my raincoat and told her, ``Lady, be good!''
And we made truth together, where no one else would.
I smiled through her fingers and ran the dust through her hands
the hour-glass of reason on the summerday sands.
We sat as the sea caught fire.
Waited as the flames grew higher
in her eyes.
We watched the eagle born
wings clipped, tail feathers shorn
but we saw him rise
over summerday sands.
Came the ten o'clock curfew.
She said, ``I must start my car.
I'm staying with someone I met last night in a bar.''
I called from my wave top
At least tell me your name!''
She smiled from her wheelspin
and said, ``It's all the same.''
I thought for a minute, jumped back on dry land
left one set of footprints on the summerday sands.
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lied together on the summerday sands.
9. March The Mad Scientist
What would you like for Christmas
a new polarity?
You're binary, and desperate to deal
in high figures
that lick us with their hotter flame
lick each and everyone the same.
And March, the mad scientist,
rings a new change
in ever-dancing colours.
He rings it here and he rings it...
but no one stops to see
the change of fate and the fate of change
that slips into his pocket
so he locks it all away from view
and shares not what he thought you knew.
And April is summer-bound,
And February's blue.
And no one stops to see the colours.
10. Pan Dance
(instrumental)
Crack wind clatter flesh rein bite on an out-size unicorn.
Rough-shod winging sky blue flight on a cold wind to Valhalla.
And join with us please Valkyrie maidens cry above the cold wind to Valhalla.
Break fast with the gods. Night angels serve with ice-bound majesty.
Frozen flaking fish raw nerve in a cup of silver liquid fire.
Moon jet brave beam split ceiling swerve and light the old Valhalla.
Come join with us please Valkyrie maidens cry above the cold wind to Valhalla.
The heroes rest upon the sighs of Thor's trusty hand maidens.
Midnight lonely whisper cries,
We're getting a bit short on heroes lately.''
Sword snap fright white pale goodbyes in the desolation of Valhalla.
And join with us please Valkyrie maidens ride empty-handed on the cold wind to Valhalla.
3. Black Satin Dancer
Come, let me play with you, black satin dancer.
In all your giving, given is the answer.
Tearing life from limb and looking sweeter than the
brightest flower in my garden.
Begging your pardon shedding right unreason.
Over sensation fly the fleeting seasons.
Thin wind whispering on broken mandolin.
Bending the minutes the hours ever turning on that
old gold story of mercy.
Desperate breathing. Tongue nipple-teasing.
Your fast river flowing your northern fire fed.
Come, black satin dancer, come softly to bed.
4. Requiem
Well, I saw a bird today flying from a bush and the
wind blew it away.
And the black-eyed mother sun scorched the butterfly
at play velvet veined.
I saw it burn.
With a wintry storm-blown sigh, a silver cloud blew
right on by.
And, taking in the morning, I sang O Requiem.
Well, my lady told me, ``Stay.''
I looked aside and walked away along the Strand.
But I didn't say a word, as the train time-table blurred
close behind the taxi stand.
Saw her face in the tear-drop black cab window.
Fading in the traffic; watched her go.
And taking in the morning, heard myself singing
O Requiem.
Here I go again.
It's the same old story.
Well, I saw a bird today I looked aside and walked
away along the Strand.
5. One White Duck • 010=Nothing At All
There's a haze on the skyline, to wish me on my way.
And there's a note on the telephone some roses on a
tray.
And the motorway's stretching right out to us all,
as I pull on my old wings one white duck
on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
I'll catch a ride on your violin strung upon your bow.
And I'll float on your melody sing your chorus soft
and low.
There's a picture-view postcard to say that I called.
You can see from the fireplace, one white duck
on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
So fly away Peter and fly away Paul from the
finger-tip ledge of contentment.
The long restless rustle of high-heeled boots calls.
And I'm probably bound to deceive you after all.
Something must be wrong with me and my brain
if I'm so patently unrewarding.
But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that
way and my zero to your power of ten equals
nothing at all.
There's no double-lock defense; there's no chain on my door.
I'm available for consultation,
But remember your way in is also my way out, and
love's four-letter word is no compensation.
Well, I'm the Black Ace dog-handler: I'm a waiter on
skates so don't you jump to your foreskin conclusion.
Because I'm up to my deaf ears in cold breakfast trays
to be cleared before I can dine on your sweet Sunday
lunch confusion.
6. Baker St Muse
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 but 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!)
Walking down the gutter thinking,
How the hell am I today?''
Well, I didn't really ask you but thanks all the same.
Pig-Me And The Whore
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.
Crash-Barrier Waltzer
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, no 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, 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.
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 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 is said and all is done I 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 s
7. Grace
Hello sun.
Hello bird.
Hello my lady.
Hello breakfast.
May I buy you again tomorrow ?
8. Summerday Sands
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lay together on the summerday sands.
I gave her my raincoat and told her, ``Lady, be good!''
And we made truth together, where no one else would.
I smiled through her fingers and ran the dust through her hands
the hour-glass of reason on the summerday sands.
We sat as the sea caught fire.
Waited as the flames grew higher
in her eyes.
We watched the eagle born
wings clipped, tail feathers shorn
but we saw him rise
over summerday sands.
Came the ten o'clock curfew.
She said, ``I must start my car.
I'm staying with someone I met last night in a bar.''
I called from my wave top
At least tell me your name!''
She smiled from her wheelspin
and said, ``It's all the same.''
I thought for a minute, jumped back on dry land
left one set of footprints on the summerday sands.
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lied together on the summerday sands.
9. March The Mad Scientist
What would you like for Christmas
a new polarity?
You're binary, and desperate to deal
in high figures
that lick us with their hotter flame
lick each and everyone the same.
And March, the mad scientist,
rings a new change
in ever-dancing colours.
He rings it here and he rings it...
but no one stops to see
the change of fate and the fate of change
that slips into his pocket
so he locks it all away from view
and shares not what he thought you knew.
And April is summer-bound,
And February's blue.
And no one stops to see the colours.
10. Pan Dance
(instrumental)
In all your giving, given is the answer.
Tearing life from limb and looking sweeter than the brightest flower in my garden.
Begging your pardon shedding right unreason.
Over sensation fly the fleeting seasons.
Thin wind whispering on broken mandolin.
Bending the minutes the hours ever turning on that old gold story of mercy.
Desperate breathing. Tongue nipple-teasing.
Your fast river flowing your northern fire fed.
Come, black satin dancer, come softly to bed.
4. Requiem
Well, I saw a bird today flying from a bush and the
wind blew it away.
And the black-eyed mother sun scorched the butterfly
at play velvet veined.
I saw it burn.
With a wintry storm-blown sigh, a silver cloud blew
right on by.
And, taking in the morning, I sang O Requiem.
Well, my lady told me, ``Stay.''
I looked aside and walked away along the Strand.
But I didn't say a word, as the train time-table blurred
close behind the taxi stand.
Saw her face in the tear-drop black cab window.
Fading in the traffic; watched her go.
And taking in the morning, heard myself singing
O Requiem.
Here I go again.
It's the same old story.
Well, I saw a bird today I looked aside and walked
away along the Strand.
5. One White Duck • 010=Nothing At All
There's a haze on the skyline, to wish me on my way.
And there's a note on the telephone some roses on a
tray.
And the motorway's stretching right out to us all,
as I pull on my old wings one white duck
on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
I'll catch a ride on your violin strung upon your bow.
And I'll float on your melody sing your chorus soft
and low.
There's a picture-view postcard to say that I called.
You can see from the fireplace, one white duck
on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
So fly away Peter and fly away Paul from the
finger-tip ledge of contentment.
The long restless rustle of high-heeled boots calls.
And I'm probably bound to deceive you after all.
Something must be wrong with me and my brain
if I'm so patently unrewarding.
But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that
way and my zero to your power of ten equals
nothing at all.
There's no double-lock defense; there's no chain on my door.
I'm available for consultation,
But remember your way in is also my way out, and
love's four-letter word is no compensation.
Well, I'm the Black Ace dog-handler: I'm a waiter on
skates so don't you jump to your foreskin conclusion.
Because I'm up to my deaf ears in cold breakfast trays
to be cleared before I can dine on your sweet Sunday
lunch confusion.
6. Baker St Muse
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 but 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!)
Walking down the gutter thinking,
How the hell am I today?''
Well, I didn't really ask you but thanks all the same.
Pig-Me And The Whore
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.
Crash-Barrier Waltzer
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, no 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, 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.
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 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 is said and all is done I 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 s
7. Grace
Hello sun.
Hello bird.
Hello my lady.
Hello breakfast.
May I buy you again tomorrow ?
8. Summerday Sands
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lay together on the summerday sands.
I gave her my raincoat and told her, ``Lady, be good!''
And we made truth together, where no one else would.
I smiled through her fingers and ran the dust through her hands
the hour-glass of reason on the summerday sands.
We sat as the sea caught fire.
Waited as the flames grew higher
in her eyes.
We watched the eagle born
wings clipped, tail feathers shorn
but we saw him rise
over summerday sands.
Came the ten o'clock curfew.
She said, ``I must start my car.
I'm staying with someone I met last night in a bar.''
I called from my wave top
At least tell me your name!''
She smiled from her wheelspin
and said, ``It's all the same.''
I thought for a minute, jumped back on dry land
left one set of footprints on the summerday sands.
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lied together on the summerday sands.
9. March The Mad Scientist
What would you like for Christmas
a new polarity?
You're binary, and desperate to deal
in high figures
that lick us with their hotter flame
lick each and everyone the same.
And March, the mad scientist,
rings a new change
in ever-dancing colours.
He rings it here and he rings it...
but no one stops to see
the change of fate and the fate of change
that slips into his pocket
so he locks it all away from view
and shares not what he thought you knew.
And April is summer-bound,
And February's blue.
And no one stops to see the colours.
10. Pan Dance
(instrumental)
And the black-eyed mother sun scorched the butterfly at play velvet veined.
I saw it burn.
With a wintry storm-blown sigh, a silver cloud blew right on by.
And, taking in the morning, I sang O Requiem.
Well, my lady told me, ``Stay.''
I looked aside and walked away along the Strand.
But I didn't say a word, as the train time-table blurred close behind the taxi stand.
Saw her face in the tear-drop black cab window.
Fading in the traffic; watched her go.
And taking in the morning, heard myself singing O Requiem.
Here I go again.
It's the same old story.
Well, I saw a bird today I looked aside and walked away along the Strand.
5. One White Duck • 010=Nothing At All
There's a haze on the skyline, to wish me on my way.
And there's a note on the telephone some roses on a
tray.
And the motorway's stretching right out to us all,
as I pull on my old wings one white duck
on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
I'll catch a ride on your violin strung upon your bow.
And I'll float on your melody sing your chorus soft
and low.
There's a picture-view postcard to say that I called.
You can see from the fireplace, one white duck
on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
So fly away Peter and fly away Paul from the
finger-tip ledge of contentment.
The long restless rustle of high-heeled boots calls.
And I'm probably bound to deceive you after all.
Something must be wrong with me and my brain
if I'm so patently unrewarding.
But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that
way and my zero to your power of ten equals
nothing at all.
There's no double-lock defense; there's no chain on my door.
I'm available for consultation,
But remember your way in is also my way out, and
love's four-letter word is no compensation.
Well, I'm the Black Ace dog-handler: I'm a waiter on
skates so don't you jump to your foreskin conclusion.
Because I'm up to my deaf ears in cold breakfast trays
to be cleared before I can dine on your sweet Sunday
lunch confusion.
6. Baker St Muse
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 but 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!)
Walking down the gutter thinking,
How the hell am I today?''
Well, I didn't really ask you but thanks all the same.
Pig-Me And The Whore
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.
Crash-Barrier Waltzer
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, no 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, 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.
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 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 is said and all is done I 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 s
7. Grace
Hello sun.
Hello bird.
Hello my lady.
Hello breakfast.
May I buy you again tomorrow ?
8. Summerday Sands
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lay together on the summerday sands.
I gave her my raincoat and told her, ``Lady, be good!''
And we made truth together, where no one else would.
I smiled through her fingers and ran the dust through her hands
the hour-glass of reason on the summerday sands.
We sat as the sea caught fire.
Waited as the flames grew higher
in her eyes.
We watched the eagle born
wings clipped, tail feathers shorn
but we saw him rise
over summerday sands.
Came the ten o'clock curfew.
She said, ``I must start my car.
I'm staying with someone I met last night in a bar.''
I called from my wave top
At least tell me your name!''
She smiled from her wheelspin
and said, ``It's all the same.''
I thought for a minute, jumped back on dry land
left one set of footprints on the summerday sands.
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lied together on the summerday sands.
9. March The Mad Scientist
What would you like for Christmas
a new polarity?
You're binary, and desperate to deal
in high figures
that lick us with their hotter flame
lick each and everyone the same.
And March, the mad scientist,
rings a new change
in ever-dancing colours.
He rings it here and he rings it...
but no one stops to see
the change of fate and the fate of change
that slips into his pocket
so he locks it all away from view
and shares not what he thought you knew.
And April is summer-bound,
And February's blue.
And no one stops to see the colours.
10. Pan Dance
(instrumental)
And there's a note on the telephone some roses on a tray.
And the motorway's stretching right out to us all, as I pull on my old wings one white duck on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
I'll catch a ride on your violin strung upon your bow.
And I'll float on your melody sing your chorus soft and low.
There's a picture-view postcard to say that I called.
You can see from the fireplace, one white duck on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
So fly away Peter and fly away Paul from the finger-tip ledge of contentment.
The long restless rustle of high-heeled boots calls.
And I'm probably bound to deceive you after all.
Something must be wrong with me and my brain if I'm so patently unrewarding.
But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that way and my zero to your power of ten equals nothing at all.
There's no double-lock defense; there's no chain on my door.
I'm available for consultation,
But remember your way in is also my way out, and love's four-letter word is no compensation.
Well, I'm the Black Ace dog-handler: I'm a waiter on skates so don't you jump to your foreskin conclusion.
Because I'm up to my deaf ears in cold breakfast trays to be cleared before I can dine on your sweet Sunday lunch confusion.
6. Baker St Muse
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 but 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!)
Walking down the gutter thinking,
How the hell am I today?''
Well, I didn't really ask you but thanks all the same.
Pig-Me And The Whore
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.
Crash-Barrier Waltzer
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, no 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, 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.
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 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 is said and all is done I 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 s
7. Grace
Hello sun.
Hello bird.
Hello my lady.
Hello breakfast.
May I buy you again tomorrow ?
8. Summerday Sands
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lay together on the summerday sands.
I gave her my raincoat and told her, ``Lady, be good!''
And we made truth together, where no one else would.
I smiled through her fingers and ran the dust through her hands
the hour-glass of reason on the summerday sands.
We sat as the sea caught fire.
Waited as the flames grew higher
in her eyes.
We watched the eagle born
wings clipped, tail feathers shorn
but we saw him rise
over summerday sands.
Came the ten o'clock curfew.
She said, ``I must start my car.
I'm staying with someone I met last night in a bar.''
I called from my wave top
At least tell me your name!''
She smiled from her wheelspin
and said, ``It's all the same.''
I thought for a minute, jumped back on dry land
left one set of footprints on the summerday sands.
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lied together on the summerday sands.
9. March The Mad Scientist
What would you like for Christmas
a new polarity?
You're binary, and desperate to deal
in high figures
that lick us with their hotter flame
lick each and everyone the same.
And March, the mad scientist,
rings a new change
in ever-dancing colours.
He rings it here and he rings it...
but no one stops to see
the change of fate and the fate of change
that slips into his pocket
so he locks it all away from view
and shares not what he thought you knew.
And April is summer-bound,
And February's blue.
And no one stops to see the colours.
10. Pan Dance
(instrumental)
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 but 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!)
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.
Crash-Barrier Waltzer
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, no 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, 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.
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 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 is said and all is done I 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 s
7. Grace
Hello sun.
Hello bird.
Hello my lady.
Hello breakfast.
May I buy you again tomorrow ?
8. Summerday Sands
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lay together on the summerday sands.
I gave her my raincoat and told her, ``Lady, be good!''
And we made truth together, where no one else would.
I smiled through her fingers and ran the dust through her hands
the hour-glass of reason on the summerday sands.
We sat as the sea caught fire.
Waited as the flames grew higher
in her eyes.
We watched the eagle born
wings clipped, tail feathers shorn
but we saw him rise
over summerday sands.
Came the ten o'clock curfew.
She said, ``I must start my car.
I'm staying with someone I met last night in a bar.''
I called from my wave top
At least tell me your name!''
She smiled from her wheelspin
and said, ``It's all the same.''
I thought for a minute, jumped back on dry land
left one set of footprints on the summerday sands.
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lied together on the summerday sands.
9. March The Mad Scientist
What would you like for Christmas
a new polarity?
You're binary, and desperate to deal
in high figures
that lick us with their hotter flame
lick each and everyone the same.
And March, the mad scientist,
rings a new change
in ever-dancing colours.
He rings it here and he rings it...
but no one stops to see
the change of fate and the fate of change
that slips into his pocket
so he locks it all away from view
and shares not what he thought you knew.
And April is summer-bound,
And February's blue.
And no one stops to see the colours.
10. Pan Dance
(instrumental)
-
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, no 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, 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.
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 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 is said and all is done I 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 s
7. Grace
Hello sun.
Hello bird.
Hello my lady.
Hello breakfast.
May I buy you again tomorrow ?
8. Summerday Sands
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lay together on the summerday sands.
I gave her my raincoat and told her, ``Lady, be good!''
And we made truth together, where no one else would.
I smiled through her fingers and ran the dust through her hands
the hour-glass of reason on the summerday sands.
We sat as the sea caught fire.
Waited as the flames grew higher
in her eyes.
We watched the eagle born
wings clipped, tail feathers shorn
but we saw him rise
over summerday sands.
Came the ten o'clock curfew.
She said, ``I must start my car.
I'm staying with someone I met last night in a bar.''
I called from my wave top
At least tell me your name!''
She smiled from her wheelspin
and said, ``It's all the same.''
I thought for a minute, jumped back on dry land
left one set of footprints on the summerday sands.
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lied together on the summerday sands.
9. March The Mad Scientist
What would you like for Christmas
a new polarity?
You're binary, and desperate to deal
in high figures
that lick us with their hotter flame
lick each and everyone the same.
And March, the mad scientist,
rings a new change
in ever-dancing colours.
He rings it here and he rings it...
but no one stops to see
the change of fate and the fate of change
that slips into his pocket
so he locks it all away from view
and shares not what he thought you knew.
And April is summer-bound,
And February's blue.
And no one stops to see the colours.
10. Pan Dance
(instrumental)
-
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 is said and all is done I 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 s
7. Grace
Hello sun.
Hello bird.
Hello my lady.
Hello breakfast.
May I buy you again tomorrow ?
8. Summerday Sands
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lay together on the summerday sands.
I gave her my raincoat and told her, ``Lady, be good!''
And we made truth together, where no one else would.
I smiled through her fingers and ran the dust through her hands
the hour-glass of reason on the summerday sands.
We sat as the sea caught fire.
Waited as the flames grew higher
in her eyes.
We watched the eagle born
wings clipped, tail feathers shorn
but we saw him rise
over summerday sands.
Came the ten o'clock curfew.
She said, ``I must start my car.
I'm staying with someone I met last night in a bar.''
I called from my wave top
At least tell me your name!''
She smiled from her wheelspin
and said, ``It's all the same.''
I thought for a minute, jumped back on dry land
left one set of footprints on the summerday sands.
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lied together on the summerday sands.
9. March The Mad Scientist
What would you like for Christmas
a new polarity?
You're binary, and desperate to deal
in high figures
that lick us with their hotter flame
lick each and everyone the same.
And March, the mad scientist,
rings a new change
in ever-dancing colours.
He rings it here and he rings it...
but no one stops to see
the change of fate and the fate of change
that slips into his pocket
so he locks it all away from view
and shares not what he thought you knew.
And April is summer-bound,
And February's blue.
And no one stops to see the colours.
10. Pan Dance
(instrumental)
Hello bird.
Hello my lady.
Hello breakfast.
May I buy you again tomorrow ?
8. Summerday Sands
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lay together on the summerday sands.
I gave her my raincoat and told her, ``Lady, be good!''
And we made truth together, where no one else would.
I smiled through her fingers and ran the dust through her hands
the hour-glass of reason on the summerday sands.
We sat as the sea caught fire.
Waited as the flames grew higher
in her eyes.
We watched the eagle born
wings clipped, tail feathers shorn
but we saw him rise
over summerday sands.
Came the ten o'clock curfew.
She said, ``I must start my car.
I'm staying with someone I met last night in a bar.''
I called from my wave top
At least tell me your name!''
She smiled from her wheelspin
and said, ``It's all the same.''
I thought for a minute, jumped back on dry land
left one set of footprints on the summerday sands.
I once met a girl with the life in her hands
and we lied together on the summerday sands.
9. March The Mad Scientist
What would you like for Christmas
a new polarity?
You're binary, and desperate to deal
in high figures
that lick us with their hotter flame
lick each and everyone the same.
And March, the mad scientist,
rings a new change
in ever-dancing colours.
He rings it here and he rings it...
but no one stops to see
the change of fate and the fate of change
that slips into his pocket
so he locks it all away from view
and shares not what he thought you knew.
And April is summer-bound,
And February's blue.
And no one stops to see the colours.
10. Pan Dance
(instrumental)
I gave her my raincoat and told her, ``Lady, be good!''
And we made truth together, where no one else would.
I smiled through her fingers and ran the dust through her hands the hour-glass of reason on the summerday sands.
We sat as the sea caught fire.
Waited as the flames grew higher in her eyes.
We watched the eagle born wings clipped, tail feathers shorn but we saw him rise over summerday sands.
Came the ten o'clock curfew.
She said, ``I must start my car.
I'm staying with someone I met last night in a bar.''
I called from my wave top
At least tell me your name!''
She smiled from her wheelspin and said, ``It's all the same.''
I thought for a minute, jumped back on dry land left one set of footprints on the summerday sands.
I once met a girl with the life in her hands and we lied together on the summerday sands.
9. March The Mad Scientist
What would you like for Christmas
a new polarity?
You're binary, and desperate to deal
in high figures
that lick us with their hotter flame
lick each and everyone the same.
And March, the mad scientist,
rings a new change
in ever-dancing colours.
He rings it here and he rings it...
but no one stops to see
the change of fate and the fate of change
that slips into his pocket
so he locks it all away from view
and shares not what he thought you knew.
And April is summer-bound,
And February's blue.
And no one stops to see the colours.
10. Pan Dance
(instrumental)
You're binary, and desperate to deal in high figures that lick us with their hotter flame lick each and everyone the same.
And March, the mad scientist, rings a new change in ever-dancing colours.
He rings it here and he rings it... but no one stops to see the change of fate and the fate of change that slips into his pocket so he locks it all away from view and shares not what he thought you knew.
And April is summer-bound,
And February's blue.
And no one stops to see the colours.