The Ceroc Years - Number Sixteen

Dance On At Eight E’en

Shall I compare you to that Fred Astaire?
You are much taller but more bald than he;
Coarse style, you find impossible to bear,
While women’s praise is fuel for vanity.
Sometimes too quick, the music rhythm sounds
And when the beat is too irregular,
Then coolly, move to move, your step confounds
The crude, distorted songs I think, bizarre.
Now your compulsive passion drives you on,
To seek invention that will make your name;
Nor do you leave the stage when all are gone,
But in eccentric oneness, dream of fame.
As much as we may love the dancing arts,
As much does this just prove we’re both old farts!