Перевод песни Jethro Tull – Baker St Muse

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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
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 Pygmy And 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, 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 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 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
But I’m just a Baker Street Muse
(I can’t get out!)