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 floor 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 with the seaweed.