The cha cha bar was sliding and we swan across the
Scotchman on the rocks (so many rocks . . .
and glass and sand.) In shock we docked in
fish head harbour where the lights were dimmed.
(Locked in, we couldn't see a thing . . . )
The floors was tin, the sky was oil, the air was
poisoned lager and the juke box pumped out
schlager because no-one pulled the plugs
(so many plugs . . . and sparks.) The live wives kept us dancing.
Dance in brine, dance in seaweed.
