Girls in kimonos, shy little flowers. Smiling from beneath their parasols. Dainty little moonbeams, delicate as china. Gentle little oriental dolls. .
Dance with me my dear. On a floor of bones and skulls. The music is our master. The devil controls our souls. Swirling and swirling. With the music all our turning.
Lord I swear, the perfume you wear. Is made out of turnip greens. And every time that I kiss you girl. It tastes like pork and beans. . Even though you're wearin' them.