After all the swallowing and fits

When I’m held hostage on a tram full of tuneless durges

With the dizzying twirl of girls pretending to be lap dancers

And red faces forcing out their final attempts at humour

Spurred on by my goading way of trying to keep out of it

And dragging me up for a conga line

I think- count yourself lucky I am not 20 anymore

Or I would ...

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