I see him, old Louie and he just stands there and stares like some big old thing. His shades loping. His brows furrowed. His sills dusty.
But everyday I sing to you Louie. I didn’t know you in your prime but I bet you were winner. I bet the tram stopped right at you door and people poured out just to see you. Just to feel you. Just to drink in your presence. Just to sing, Louie, Louie, oh yeah. We got it going on. Aye, aye, aye. Yeah, I bet the people poured in your front door to see your eyes open and lit up bright as the stars, your shades peaked and your sills dripping in wine and laughter.
But what happened to you, Louie? Does the tram not stop there anymore? Have the people forgotten about you? The right people anyway. Is there a different kind of people now? Don’t they play the way Louie does? Don’t they don’t sing and dance? They haven’t got it going on? Nay, nay, nay.
I want to know why you are so sad, Louie? And why did the people stop coming and others start passing you by? Why does the tram not stop at you anymore?
Because, it feels to me as though you are in a deep slumber. And I want to wake you up.