I see pictures of the porscheSmashed and twisted out of shapeHanging in officesTo match up with the drapeAnd posters of himIn boutiques where they couldn't knowThe styles they're inBelong to himAnd he died thirty years agoSame shoesShe became the way to lookThey thought that they could freezeWhile a hundred million menHad fantasiesAnd without a word saidAnd non to be understoodThose nervous laughsIn photographsHave captured loneliness for goodBut how could she refuseThe girl who pouted scarlet lipsAnd stood for high-heel shoesSame shoesI once was in HavanaWith dollars in my pantsWhere I met an old manWho was cleaning shoes for centsI said "Can I askHow it is, how you're getting on?It must be strangeIn all this changeAnd how's the revolution?"He said"Same shoes"

 

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