I think I'll have mine, please.

Oh, how we dance besieged by lights
a thorn in the crater of volcanic memories
scraping away all perfect theories

Land we shall but hold the landing
we have never acclaimed such a finish
neither bear under fox has fallen
nor we under foot of trampling crowds

Give me a fool and I will show you freedom
with a spark of a thousand creations
thrust him into the fire and I will follow
fires only burn

Clear the dance floor in await of new shoes
prepared for snow and ice and martinis
we glide under the wood and through it
another floor, please, at table no. 4!

Hold my hand,
I'll be right back.