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I've got a new dance called The Margaret Thatcher. |
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It'll get in your pants, you'd better call the dispatcher |
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of deliverers of increased pants awesomeness. |
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Get the awesomest pants they offer. |
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Preposterous shoes are also required for the moves, |
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although sensible footwear or barefoot behooves |
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and all attire's optional. |
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You only ever do it when there's nobody watching you. |
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Do it. Do The Margaret Thatcher. |
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Just do it. Do The Margaret Thatcher, y'all. |
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Here's a little something for the |
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wallflowers in the room, |
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all my people at the party for whom |
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the dance don't come natural. |
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Enhance your stature. Fall |
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into the routine they call |
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The Margaret Thatcher, y'all. |
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Do The Margaret Thatcher. |
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Do The Margaret Thatcher, y'all. |
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Step One: |
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Wiggle, wobble, wriggle, |
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coddle your young, |
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intensify your ennui, |
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then before you get done, |
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put your left foot over to the left if you dare, |
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then pretend you got scared, |
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then point at your hair. |
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Step Two: |
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Elevate everything up, |
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increase any numbers that you're in control of, |
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then Skip to The Lou, |
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then stand stock still, |
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then illustrate for everyone your ultimate skill. |
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Do it. Just do it. |
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Ill is the manner of the dancing you do. |
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Calibrate it so that anybody'd think that you're too |
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intensely unhealthy to move like that. |
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Take the multiple indignities: a dance floor fact. |
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Don't retract unless you're starting a move, |
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and don't begin a motion unless you follow it through, |
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and don't do anything I wouldn't condone |
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except a dance named after a villainous crone. |
