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 blond 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, 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. 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.