At times we miscalculate the moves,
We acquit at our peril,
With the irresistible vocals,
And beats louder than words,
Why we dance at our insults,
We are painted in black,
With crooked and spotted legs,
Yet, our desire is to glow,
Why we trusted our painters,
They dressed us in long white dresses,
Well, Mr Tailor knows about the front slit,
We dozzed in our drinks,
With olives for grapes,
In the serene choral,
Whose refrain was,
'Move, we stepping on you'
It's our minds that killed us,
We lived in the trust of their smiles,
And in their cold fragranced hugs.