Dancing with the devil, Everyday our feet tap out patterns as we glide, He boasts of his hand fitting so nicely, ’round my waist as we sway from side to side.
With him, my dance card is always full, Never to my likings though, I stomp. I pout. I don’t wanna. But our audience demands that we put on quite the show.
So we prance & we swirl. We dip & we swoosh. His rhythmical antics… Well, add them to the pile of reasons I need a masseuse.
Dancing with the devil, He’ll hold you close; his whispers are never nothings of sweet, He’ll just tickle your ear with his steel wool mustache, And rattle off, “It won’t be long until together again TODAY we will meet!”
And he’s right. Much to my chagrin, I accept his offer unwillingly, I grumble internally when the music begins.
And the music you ask? Whatcha dancin’ to? Well, just leave it to the devil… He picks the SAME stinkin’ song; never a ditty of new.
The record is scratchy; always on the player, At any given moment in the day, the needle finds its groove, Here we go again… “Geez, devil! I’m all tapped out of dancin’ moves!"
Who is the devil? Why, I am sure, he dances with you, too. Perhaps just as often, Or maybe your music is not ALWAYS on the player ready for a dance of new. Do you know him? Have you guessed my lucifer of dance? Then I’ll just put the needle on the record…
Sliding across the dance floor; I repeat my motherly trance.
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