Seaport September - Latin Quarter

Feel that wet concrete through the seat of your jeans

No cab-fore, just the cold air

You’re a man without means.

A bank roll lighter and light years older

Someone’s hand was in your pocket

While they cried on your shoulder.

Don’t stare at thot mon in the tropic white suit, ah!

He may mop his brow but he’s liable to shoot yah!

He’s no Peter Lorre, He’s no merry prankster,

He’II help you to find out

Why they put «angst» into «gangster».

Seaport September, a night to remember

Bad Luck is no exclusive club

They just mode you a member.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget where you are

When Marseille seems just a day

Before this Singapore bar.

Asking a Joe, does he know somewhere finer

Then a blow up and you show up

On a slower boat to China.

And a head that might be yours

Is aching on a lower bunk

Did you really set to sea

To be a sailor on this junk?