Nice bit of tinkling on the old ivories by the man himself and another bag of memories from the boy who never grew up


I’m on the streets again prowling and a hustlin
Offering pleasure in a cockeyed hat
Supporting doctrines that others are contesting
Reviewing chances in a paper bag
Its a mystery how I got to New York City
Someone said I must have bribed a priest
Whatever, however, it doesn’t matter
I’m dancing I’m singing which brings some relief

Shes over and shes under not getting any younger
Her skin is shiny and starting to crease
Still shes happy with her figure and her wiggling
Still dances with a stranger and his two left feet
She confesses that her days are numbered
And the numbers can be one two three
One at the top one at the bottom
Someone took a photo now its on TV

I am a man chiseled and perfected
My image haunts me as I try to please
My t shirt states I don’t take prisoners
But theres always an exception which will bring some relief

Satisfied, pacified nearly an Adonis
Looking like a sculpture that Rodin threw away
Painted into corners by a Cezanne or a Manet
Dancing with Dorothy on the road to Mandalay
Getting a little older can lead to some contrition
Reaching for religion in a beligarant way
Cutting down on substances that change the destination
Mopping up the gravy from the lips of Claude Monet

Bulking up on on Coltrane when theres time to spare
Learning to play saxophone inside a week
Trumpeters around me make my ears tremble
Everyones a winner with their deformed cheeks
And its a Grand Central Station that took me back to London
Homer Simpson platitudes that poor Marge has to bear
Looking like an extra from an Andy Warhol movie
Dylans on the radio so nobody cares

And now we’re dancing performing welcoming the morning
Walking back to Waxy’s down in Rupert St
Insisting we’re better despite the Aran sweaters
Singing The Wild Rover to everyone we meet