She’s the girl who gives me such a tingle,
setting upright on the floor.
Grooves me, and I woo her when I’m able,
simply got to know her more.

She’s so sweet—that’s just what I am thinking.
Sitting on her head:
wetted threadlike chevelure that’s shear-cropped. . .
blushing, my face red.

Now we’re dancing, going through the movements,
a belle and her beau.
I ain’t moved like this in distant memory—
polka, then tango.

Wood is bumping up against my thighs an’
nestling near my prow.
Like the snake in Eden, she tempt-fates me,
though a woody-straight frau.

Mop, mop, mop is my dancing partner; I believe
mop, mop, mop’s my romantic partner; her name’s Eve.

She is smooth, like the leg of a table;
she’s making my night!
Her luxurious mane’s getting steamy
and it’s platinum-white.

Bolder, bolder, I am getting nearer;
soon I will beseech:
“Please move in with me on this hot night!”
But she’s mute, sans speech.

Mop, mop, mop is my dancing partner; I believe
mop, mop, mop’s my romantic partner. Will she leave?

[dancing interlude]

Mop, mop, mop is my dancing partner; she’s so lean.
Mop, mop, my immaculate partner; she’s so clean.

As I hold her, people are staring,
I know what they think:
that her hair is made of threaded cables
rinsed out in the sink.

Can’t they understand that I want her,
though she doesn’t speak.
They demand I split; their choler’s
soon transcending pique.

Mock, mock, mock me for dancing,
then they make me grieve.
Stop, stop, stop my romancing,
then clean floors with Eve.