From a dead beat to an old greaser here's thinking of you.
You won't remember the long nights
coffee bars and black tights and white thighs
in shop windows where blonde assistants
fully-fashioned a world
made of dummies with no mummies or daddies to reject them
When bombs were banned every Sunday and the Shadows did F.B.I
And tired young sax-players sold their instruments of torture
Sat in a station sharing wet dreams
of Charlie Parker Jack Kerouac Rene Magritte
to name a few of the heroes
who were too wise for their own good
left the young brood to go on living without them.
Old queers with young faces who remember your name
though you're a dead beat with tired feet
two ends that don't meet.
To a dead beat from an old greaser
Think you must have me all wrong
I didn't care friend.
I wasn't there friend
If it's the price of a pint that you need ask me again.