Letter to an Aspiring Junkie

Let me hip you to the streets, Jim, Ain't nothing happening. Maybe some tomorrows gone up in smoke, raggedy preachers, telling a joke to lonely, son-less old ladies’ maids. Nothing happening, Nothing shakin', Jim. A slough of young cats riding that cold, white horse, a grey old monkey on their back, of course, does rodeo tricks. No haps, man. No haps. A worn-out pimp, with a space-age conk, setting up some fool for a game of tonk, or poker or get ‘em dead and alive. The streets? Climb into the streets, man, like you climb into the ass end of a lion. Then it's fine. It's a bug-a-loo and a shing-a-ling, African dreams on a buck-and-a-wing and a prayer. That's the streets, man, Nothing happening.