Перевод песни Jethro Tull – Baker St Muse

Работает на технологии Яндекс.Переводчика
Слушать
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
(Oh, 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, 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, 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 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'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
(Well I'm just a Baker Street muse...
I can't get out!)