I see pictures of the porsche

Smashed and twisted out of shape

Hanging in offices

To match up with the drape

And posters of him

In boutiques where they couldn't know

The styles they're in

Belong to him

And he died thirty years ago



Same shoes



She became the way to look

They thought that they could freeze

While a hundred million men

Had fantasies

And without a word said

And non to be understood

Those nervous laughs

In photographs

Have captured loneliness for good



But how could she refuse

The girl who pouted scarlet lips

And stood for high-heel shoes



Same shoes



I once was in Havana

With dollars in my pants

Where I met an old man

Who was cleaning shoes for cents

I said "Can I ask

How it is, how you're getting on?

It must be strange

In all this change

And how's the revolution?"



He said

"Same shoes