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"