Lyrics

Feel that wet concrete through the seat of your jeans No cab-fare, 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 that man 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'll help you to find out Why they put "angst" into "ganster" Seaport September, a night to remember Bad Luck is no exclusive club They just make you a member Sometimes it's easy to forget where you are When Marseilles seems just a day away Before this Singapore bar Asking a Joe, does he know somewhere finer Then a blow up and your 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?