|
Down in the cellar in the Boho zone |
|
I went looking for some sweet inspiration, oh well |
|
Just another hard time band with Negro affectations |
|
I was a hopeful in rooms like this |
|
When I was working cheap |
|
It's an old romance, the Boho dance |
|
Hasn't gone to sleep |
|
But even on the scuffle |
|
The cleaner's press was in my jeans |
|
And any eye for detail |
|
Caught a little lace along the seams |
|
And you were in the parking lot |
|
Subterranean by your own design |
|
The virtue of your style inscribed |
|
On your contempt for mine |
|
Jesus was a beggar, He was rich in grace |
|
And Solomon kept his head in all his glory |
|
It's just that some steps outside the Boho dance |
|
Have a fascination for me |
|
A camera pans the cocktail hour |
|
Behind a blind of potted palms |
|
And finds a lady in a Paris dress |
|
With runs in her nylons |
|
You read those books where luxury |
|
Comes as a guest to take a slave |
|
Books where artists in noble poverty |
|
Go like virgins to the grave |
|
Don't you get sensitive on me |
|
'Cause I know you're just too proud |
|
You couldn't step outside the Boho dance now |
|
Even if good fortune allowed |
|
Like a priest with a pornographic watch |
|
Looking and longing on the sly |
|
Sure it's stricken from your uniform |
|
But you can't get it out of your eyes |
|
Nothing is capsulized in me |
|
On either side of town |
|
The streets were never really mine |
|
Not mine, not mine, these glamor gowns |