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 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,
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.
From a dead beat to 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 a pint that you need, ask me again.