From a dead beat to an old greaser, here's thinking of you.
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You won't remember the long nights;
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coffee bars; black tights and white thighs
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in shop windows where blonde assistants fully-fashioned a world made
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of dummies (with no mummies or daddies to reject them).
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When bombs were banned every Sunday and the Shadows played F.B.I.
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And tired young sax-players sold their instruments of torture ---
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sat in the station sharing wet dreams of Charlie Parker,
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Jack Kerouac, Ren\'e Magritte, to name a few of the heroes
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who were too wise for their own good --- left the young brood to
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go on living without them.
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Old queers with young faces --- who remember your name,
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though you're a dead beat with tired feet;
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two ends that don't meet.
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To a dead beat from an old greaser.
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Think you must have me all wrong.
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I didn't care, friend. I wasn't there, friend,
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If it's the price of pint that you need, ask me again.
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From A Dead Beat To An Old Greaser
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| Jethro Tull |
