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