giovedì 8 luglio 2010
What's up in Baker street tonight
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.
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.
1975 jethro tull, minstrel in the gallery
*e a chi riesce a tradurmela bene, la prima copia del monologo prog-rock che da tempo sogno di scrivere.