Jethro Tull, Jethro Tull - Ministrel In The Gallery (1975) by Jethro Tull (보컬), Jethro Tull (보컬) on maniadb.com

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-glo'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 (over-fed 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 upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes - observed the spaces in between the old men's
cackle.
And he brewed a song of love and hatred - oblique suggestions -
and he
waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters - static-humming panel-beaters.

The Minstrel in the Gallery looked down on the rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass - saw his face in everyone.
Hey!

He titillated men-of-action - belly warming, hands still rubbing
on the
parts they never mention (salaried and collar-scrubbing).

He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating one-line jokers -
T.V.
documentary makers (over-fed 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 he threw away his looking-glass and saw his face in everyone.
Hey!
The Minstrel in the Gallery. Yes!
Looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes. Yeah!
Mm. The Minstrel in the Gallery.

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 good-byes in the desolation of Valhalla.
And join with us please - Valkyrie maidens ride empty-handed on
the Cold
Wind to Valhalla.

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.

Black Satin Dancer, given is the answer.
Tearing life from limb and looking sweeter than the brightest flower
in my
garden.

Come, let me play with you; Come, Black Satin Dancer.
In all your giving, given is the answer.
Your fast river flowing - your Northern fire fed.
Come, Black Satin Dancer, come softly to bed.

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.

A one, two, three.
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? One White Duck on your wall.
One Duck on your wall.

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? One White Duck on your wall.
One Duck on your wall.

So fly away Peter and fly away Paul - from the finger-tip ledge of
contentment.
The long restless rustle of high heel 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.
And 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.

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.

Hello sun.
Hello bird.
Hello my lady.
Hello breakfast. May I
buy you again tomorrow?

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.

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, TV 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 upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes observed the spaces
In 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,

The minstrel in the gallery
Looked down on the rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass -
Saw his face in everyone.

He titillated men-of-action
Belly warming, hands still rubbing
On the parts they never mention.
(salaried and collar-scrubbing.)

He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating,
One-line jokers, TV 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 -
And saw his face in everyone.

The minstrel in the gallery
Looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes...
The minstrel in the gallery

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.