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She walks nicely. She got her hands on her feet.
She’s with the swaying crowd. The music’s playing loud.
And all the right people on the floor of the cathedral.
It’s a swell time, a really gay old time.
With the party streamers. And the cricket chirpers.
Banjo, bongos and strings.
The night is carolling.
Yellow moon sings and the stars that bling.
Another harvest dance. Over the river glance.
The squares are getting down. The music lights the town.
The boys walk around the streets.
They got their hair all neat.
Looking for the girls. The really curvy girls.
They got the boys on a string. They go a selecting.
Like jukebox tracks. The boys think lotto max.
It’s the time of the season to toss all reason.
And catch the bug. The loose jitter bug.
Cause it’s all a dance. Quick thrills and romance.
And you sit dreamily. Recalling memories.
When you’re old and grey. The mind does stray.
Of silly youthful times. Those gay old times.
When time was sweet. That first love you meet.
Smiles and bright eyes. Little white lies.

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