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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 F.B.I. and tiered young sax-players sold their instruments of torture sat in the station sharing wet dreams of charlie Parker Jack Keouac 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. |