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 played FBI
And tired young sax-players sold their instruments of torture
Sat in the station sharing wet dreams of charlie parker
Jack Kerouac, René 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 pint that you need, ask me again