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.