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

Singapore slings.

 

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.