Routine grinds the mind as a stone a knife

And leaves a spirit weakened and begrimed.

But the music flows and restores my life

With its melody so superbly rhymed.

But I do not know the ways of the art-

Neither pirouette nor romantic waltz.

So I improvise my discotheque part

And it is not said my dancing is false.

We twist and gyrate to pop so foolish.

I beg the DJ for some of my loves-

Music of the old, music not toolish,

Music where the star can wear both his gloves.

The song stays the same, and I ramble on

Though without meaning, the beat is not gone.