From A Dead Beat To An Old Greaser



From a dead beat to an old greaser, here's thinking of you.
You won't remember the long nights, 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 sold 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 your name,
though you've a dead 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.
Yes and she's bad-eyed and loveless,
a young man's raising and i flower in her company,
give me no sugar without her cream.

She's a warm fart at Christmas,
she's a breath of campaigne on sparkling night.
Yes and she's bad-eyed and loveless,
turns other women to envious green.
Yes and she's bad-eyed and loveless,
a young man's vision, in my old man's dream.