The scrape of a chair and the light in your hair
As the band plays Sinatra again
That’s my tune I won’t carry or whistle
Rita Hayworth never looked as lovely as she did
No time for romance as fine as a hat pin
With your high heels dying by the door
Can’t roll me out of bed
Shave or wash or comb my hair
When we don’t go out dancing on Saturday nights anymore
No waltzing disco divas, no rhumbas worth your dreaming
Paper plates and silly hats and waiting games
Plastic champagne bubbles can always lead to trouble
When you wish for violins and golden rings
Hallways look like freeways, yellow lines on broken highways
You can’t go anywhere without your teddy bear
Put your high heels on the shelf and keep the romance to yourself
Cause we don’t go out dancing on Saturday nights anymore
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