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