Tonight, right after you have been fed,
you’re gonna go out and tread.
How on the floor your shoes will have slid—
it won’t be to a two-step.

By fox trots you ain’t impressed,
because you know what is best.
Once you have started, you will never relent,
until from waltzing you are spent.

One, two, three quarter notes.
This dance to you is more than a must;
you’re never nonplussed.

Looking across the floor that shines so bright,
you really want to be there.
You ain’t in tutu, hanging on the barre,
and the dance is not square.
You’ll trip the fantastic that’s light;
your shoes will nearly take flight.
As if on air, your feet feel so bright…
the dance that makes you feel alright.

One, two, three quarter notes.
This dance to you is more than a must;
you’re never nonplussed.
Your feet flow sleekly on sweet boards devoid of dust.
Just three quarter beats.

You’d leave if they were playing rock ’n’ roll;
“Sayonara!” you’d say.
You would no longer be around.
Those who stuck around could just sashay.

You’d leave them all to that fate—
to move to music over which they’d fawn…
maybe some Dire Straits.

One, two, three, you’d retreat.
You would leave them all there in your dust,
evincing disgust.

One, two, three quarter beats.
This dance to you is more than a must;
you’re never nonplussed.
You’d flee those beats of 4/4, ’cause for what you lust:
three quarter notes—
as in “Away
in a Manger.”