Friday night and the tights are low.
Lookin’ out for a place with dough.
Where they play bags of agony, songs like Spam.
You come in to look for Hamm.
Hammy does his squirrel high-jinks.
Day is young and the music stinks.
With a bit of junk music, everything is “fine.”
Help! The doofs are starting to dance.
And when you get the chance…
You are the dancing Squirrel. Dumb and sweet. Only 75.
Dancing Squirrel, forget the beat, toss the tambourine.
You can’t dance. You can’t dive. Playing in-sane songs all night.
See that Squirrel, he’s wearing jeans, he’s the dancing Squirrel.