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 f.b.i. and tired young sax-players sold their instruments of torture --- sat in the station sharing wet dreams of charlie parker, jack
Ac, ren'e 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 nam
Ough 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 th
Ce of pint that you need, ask me again.