Swing, swang, cut the rug, sweetie pie,
swirl, smirking as you spin,
your skirt defying gravity,
spinning like a top tilting
after three too many
Step up the syncopation.
Manhandle that trumpet, Roy.
Shriek a long drawn-out high C.
Shatter glasses, dislodge the earwax of
the bald-domed ogling codger
sitting in the corner sipping.
Stop clock, your tick-tocking.
Let the night remain forever young.
Allow no morning Sabbath sunbeam to stab
dyspeptic these jitter-bugging beboppers.
In the name of Bacchus, don’t ever stop,
but keep keeping the beat, let the sweat drops drip.