The Red Rose of Palookaville
It’s raining blood on a Bleaker Street bedlam.
Nothing but dead horses, broken carts.
Every phone box has become a mad motel,
for the gin soaked, screaming hearts.
There's not a taxicab left in Palookaville,
and a trumpet mutes out sad news.
Of the kebab-stabbed boy, who went raving mad,
since ol' ruby sucked on his blues.
Christ! Her betrayal has left him drowning,
as her dirty bed paddles the beast.
He’ll cling on forever to this murder of love.
She was his famine before her feast.
Now, maybe he’ll get a tattoo.
A red rose by any other crime.
He’ll hide it right up there on his shoulder blade,
and let it weep from time to time.