Well Daskarzine, she was pretty bland

As she stretched out in the corner of the room

She was Oh! so lazy with her pistol hand

As her hair hung hot off the loom

A red-eyed Chicken felt like stepping in

But his lines lacked their customary cool

Her conversation flowed like treacle from a tin

And Chicken felt like some kind of fool



Oh Yeah!

Her every move

Is a lesson in street ballet

And they speak her name in cheap hotels

From Turkey to Marseillaise



Seduction seems to hang in the dressing-room air

But no-one knows just who's seducing who

She puts it out wave after wave

And never seems to miss the slightest cue

Outside in the wings

The curtain-boys cry lonely

Their one true love is Daskarzine

And for her they'll all die slowly



Oh babe, she says, we've got to die sometime

It's the sweetest thing we do

Why not die from month to month

With my touch to help you through



Now Chicken left the room feeling angry and cold

Young Stetson looked reluctant and lame

Daskarzine had him neatly pidgeonholed

And he was just clinging blindly to his name



I'm Stetson and I ain't so bad, he kept on saying

But his mind was trapped in some kind of cage

He had failed at the ancient art of role-playing

And was fighting to leave the bleeding stage



On the radio

A tenor saxaphone

Cries sweet jazz poetry

And it breaks on Daskarzine's facade

Of false serenity