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
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