Once I was at a late night jam, with glowsticks and a dash of glam,
Looking through a crate of vinyl collected from the days of yore.
I nodded rhythmic by the speakers, near the DJ in his sneakers,
Hoping for a ‘choon for bangin’, bangin’ like a closing door.
“Bullet in the Gun,” I muttered, “bangin’ like a closing door -
He’ll play this and nothing more.”

But, distinctly I recall now, Insomnia rang throughout the hall now,
And each dancer ran from corners to be the first upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished for Tiesto, whispering “I hope the rest do,”
Listening for the whoop that showed me where to find my love Lenore -
For the dancing half-dressed maiden whom the club kids named Lenore -
Each time I saw her, I went “Phoar!”

And as Sandstorm began to end, Papua came from out the bin,
And I was thrilled by rhythms that had thrilled a million once before;
So that now, beside the speakers beating, my throat was hoarse from all the bleating,
Bleating out the name of she who danced with me that time before -
That silver-septumed angel who had danced with me that time before -
The one who wiggled like a whore.

Pump Up The Volume now they spun, and there I felt the lucky one,
For she came in with a fauxhawk and shirt that read “I Know The Score!”
Not the least obeisance made she, not a minute stopped or stayed she,
But with glassy eyes then ran she grinning out onto the floor.
Grinning at the Underworld that drew her out onto the floor.
Threw up her hands and called for more.

And the spotlight o’er her raving throws her shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that twists dancing on the floor
Shall get her number- nevermore!