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 Kerouac, 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 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.