Even before I walked or talked,
my mother and I went dancing.
We took the bus, we braved the walk-
mama needed to go prancing.
Then up the metal fire case stair,
banging, toning like empty tanks,
to fall into the kitchen chair
near the hamburger patty steaks.
O these girls were really cookin’,
the walls were bumpin’, jumpin’ jive.
Believe it, that place was sumpin’
makin’ bubblin’ brown chow with chives.
Lipstick, ribbons, and bobby socks,
peddle pushers, shorts, plaid and blue,
all the music that really rocked,
perm pressed hair and saddle shoes too.
The girls would jump and fan their hands,
swing their butts, spin and shout out loud.
The sound pour’d out to all the lands
and drew an even bigger crowd.
My mom was first among them all,
wearing a grin, big as a sign.
She was swinging, she was singing
or wriggling on the floor supine.
Mama was a’pran, pran, prancing
she was the top, she was first class.
Mama was a’dan, dan, dancing,
without a doubt, having a blast.