The Smokers

In the corners where the smokers smoke, A rainy day on beale street for music folks. They claim they don't remember a thing under the green smoke. Trying to hide the moments of their joy. Days when the smokers were innocent boys. They said they grew up With Cuban cigars And were raised by men with 17 scars. They had their dreams back then, But they now ride their motorcycles into oblivion, Getting far away from themselves as they can. A man with tinted sunglasses like a doubled edge sword, Black shiny metal clothing with a blue bandanna. Walking into club 152 with a girl named Diana. Cigarettes scattered over the club floor, Alcohol and rock and roll music roar, This is a saturday night on Beale street for a smoker, Watch out - the cards are on the table and theres the joker. Man with the leather jacket swore his last breath Would not be in vain, Said he would never board deaths train. Because the vodka whispered he could be invincible, But cruel cruel was its bite Which laid down his head that night. Betrayed by booze, Dizzily a swoon.