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