San Francisco ’61,
outside the sideshow of
home corner to the big boss man of Schlitz malt liquor.
Ain’t nothing to do,
patched up “Lonely Ones”,
looking for honor in breakin’ a face open,
or comparing trophy wounds.
They dig it the most amongst the pigeons,
pickin up hopeless girls who are just short of selling themselves on the scag line,
shimmy shimmy coco pop, shimmy shimmy pop,
victories at anytime for the price of a couple of pills.
The Aces’ man tells me to back it up “Fuck that white rock and roll shit. That music is the black man’s and don’t you forget it!
You don’t have a share until your name is on the title, honkie!”