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, coffee bars and 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'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