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 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 a 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.   **Intrumental** (              )   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 a pint that you need  ask me again.