Raymond Chandler, me, and Dashiell are chewing the fat down at
the Formosa
Under a cracked red lamp where we are made to feel welcome for
as long as we can pay
These are the mean streets of Los Angeles in 1948
The day's developments involved a lot of questioning -- we are
tired of being grilled by hordes of grim-faced police
Detectives we knew, some we'd even played cards with
They said we weren't suspects --- at least not yet
All three of us had this agent, who now is very dead and someone
who did not like him put a bullet through his head
Then pinned a note on his messy chest, which said, "I won't be
needing you anymore, here's your ten percent."
Sam ***** and Philip Marlowe would have a tough one to figure
out
Here, everybody hates agents and ours had too big a mouth
Imagine --- he would tell us how he made us into writing stars
Someone punctuated him but just left question marks
On this grey and foggy evening where we chase the dawn
Our fedoras by our sides, just as cops have guns
We're heavy into whisky --- it's writers' remorse
Who will make the deals for us --- for a commission of course?
The bartender is so angry and weathered --- as if he'd fought World War II all by himself
Dashiell and Chandler got so looped they took a cab ride home
I'm walking now towards the ocean - I will sleep all day
Then head for my typewriter -- maybe call William Morris or H.N. Swanson
See if they've got any writing jobs that pay.