From a dead beat to an old greaser
Here's thinking of you
You won't remember the long nights
Coffee bars; 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 FBI
And tired young sax-players their instruments of torture -
Sat in the 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 you 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
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