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• Artiste: latin quarter
• Titre: Seaport September
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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?