the writing of kuypers
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2001-04-09 14:40:20 (UTC)



March 13-14, 1989

Yeah. He can really move.
See him on a dance floor.
He swings hips like no other
white boy. Yeah.
But he refused to slow dance.
He was cool. Just ask him.
But he couldn't slow down.

Yeah. He knew how to dance.
He barely moved. But he moved.
And he looked so damn sexy.
He knew what to do.
But he smoked. And hated
the world. Yeah. And
no one could ever get close to him.

Yeah. He could hold his own
when the lights flashed and
the beat quickened.
But he didn't know when to stop.
Enough is enough, I said. Yeah.
But he didn't know when the
dance was over. And he crashed.

Yeah. He was a klutz.
Didn't like to dance. But he
loved music. And when he liked
a song, he never wanted it to end.
Yeah. And he never wanted to hear
a new song. But the songs he loved
wouldn't play for him anymore.
Songs don't last forever.

Yeah. On a Saturday night
he would hit the dance scene.
he was the best looking thing
on the floor.
His moves were almost awkward.
Do the California Twist.
Yeah. But he couldn't accept
the idea of a new step.

Yeah. He wasn't the best dancer.
He swayed back and forth.
And he snapped his fingers.
He danced like a child. Yeah.
But he had fun. No worries.
He danced in a group -
no partner, but many friends.

Yeah. He liked to party.
Mister cool. He'd dance to be
shocking. Yeah. Caught your eye.
Hunk-of-burning love.
Always laughing. Always joking.
And just when you got used to him,
he'd dance with someone else.

Yeah. He had a bad knee. He
limped. Old war wound, I suppose.
But he liked to move. Yeah.
As much as he liked to get wasted.
Or steal the show. Or flirt.
And it was a party mask he had
to wear. Too heavy.

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