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.