Sitting with Keith at a Bar on A

Some guys walk easy, they don’t strut, they are one with the ground
They are a walking flag pole, tattooed and torn, blowing in the wind
Eye of a pirate, pissed on street corners, waited on broken bombshells
Sometimes straddling a rhythm guitar, dirty jeans, wicked alligator smile
Leather skin, British boy good looks, Marlborough lip, tobacco tongue
Come dirty like a knife, shaking the reggae off the street, Rasta boys
No body guards, no lifeguards, looking death in the eye, laughing
The tall and thins, slip in like fins of sharks, gritting bloody teeth
On the dark corners they fight with breaths so hard, move to the beat

In walks Keith, rock and roll ghost, perpetual smoke pours from his lip
Puts his arm out for the usual, bartender nods in agreement, the regulars
Make like regulars, playing cool by the juke box, playing pool in the light
All at attention, he’s angling over, locking up a doo-wop tune, so soon
He calls up a girl to dance, body tight, match light, groping the way down
Falling for him, stranger, dolled up just enough, in her eyes, a magic puff
Backing away, he stands there watching her dance alone, smoke lifting
Original Van Gogh, painting her with his eyes, ashes builds at the tip
No Jumping Jack Flash, no Rolling Stones, cock eyed and wonderful

Blues on a Monday night, thump thumping through a seduced bar crowd
Here to see Billy go at it again, his band is really big shit, yeah, yeah
To my left is a Marley man, to my right is Keith, tap tapping is knee skin
Jiggling the cubes in a glass, smoking a rocket ship cigarette, blazing
His face is a weather map, takes me through Tahiti to the cold under
Whispers something in my ear, can’t understand, bob bobbing my head
Smoking a rocket ship cigarette, alarming, he blows a whistle into the air
Loud and above it, I give Billy the fist pump, look at me, I got Keith
Sitting beside me, orange and blue, like a decked hammy boy bitchin’

So like he doesn’t stay for the encore, makes his way out before Billy
There on stage smashing his guitar, Keith would have liked that, maybe
He wasn’t Live at Leeds, he was cool with a cigarette, held that baby down
Played the chords so easy, always hammering down, lighting up a crowd
Never saw him play live, here on A he never bothered to strap it up
Just walked in on us when we least expected, sat, listened on, dangerously
We were the lucky ones, never saw Mick, Charlie or Ronnie, we saw Keith
Sitting there with a smoke, glass of fire water and cubes, playing himself
A delicate British gentleman, walking wounded, crazy with the days