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.