ON THE NEON BOULEVARD

ON BUSTED CONCRETE AND OLD TIN CANS,

I’D RUN WITH JACK AND THE VOODOO MAN.

WE LIVED OUR MUSIC IN A DESPERATE BAND,

IN THE OLD GAS LIGHT CAFE.

ON BLEAKER STREET IN THE VILLAGE SCENE,

WE POPPED OUR PILLS AND SMOKED OUR DREAMS.

I’D GET MY KICKS WHEN MY GUITAR SCREAMED,

IN A PSYCHEDELIC HAZE.

CAFE POETS, SMOKY BARS,

TROUBADOURS AND OLD GUITARS.

MEET THE DEVIL AND TALK WITH GOD,

ON THE NEON BOULEVARD, ON THE NEON BOULEVARD.

WE’D WEAVE OUR TALES ON THE CITY STREETS,

WHERE HEADLIGHTS GAZE AND SIRENS SCREECH.

FEEL THE RUSH AND BREATHE THE HEAT,

OF SOOT AND OLD CIGARS.

OF SIDEWALK PREACHERS AND AMERICAN FLAGS,

ANGEL GIRLS AND BOYS IN DRAG.

WE SANG OUR TUNES WITH ALL WE HAD,

IN EMPTY CABARETS.

THE VOODOO MAN CAST A MAGIC SPELL,

WITH HIS GRAVEL VOICE AND SMILE FROM HELL.

THROUGH THE HEAT OF THE LIGHTS AND A MUSTY SMELL,

OF THE BOOZE DRIED ON THE FLOOR.

JACK PLAYED BASS WITH A DOPEY GRIN,

THE ANGRY FRENCH MAN BEAT THE SKINS.

IN A ROAR OF GUNSHOT AS HE HIT THE RIM,

IN A HOSTILE SERENADE.