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!)
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.
Walking down the gutter thinking, "How the hell am I today?''
Well, I didn't really ask you but thanks all the same.
a) 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 Mary
