You're Not on the Dance Floor

When you haven't got a soul and completely lack rhythm
And compensate with a rented white tuxedo
Well, we know how this'll end
Please don't try to pretend
But I know just what to do
Hey, does this fruit punch taste like ecstasy to you?

You're not on the dance floor, you're in the trunk of my car
Don't let the music fool you, or you won't get very far
Your heart's beating fast, like it's a four on the floor
My foot's on the gas, don't try and open the door

I know this little warehouse in the San Fernando Valley
(Well, it's not *in* the Valley, but it's up *near* the Valley)
And I know you must be thinking I'm like some modern day Manson
But don't be obtuse; you know it's for your own good

It's all fun and games until someone puts a Monsieur Herr record on

You're not on the dance floor, you're in the trunk of my car
Don't let the music fool you, or you won't get very far
Your heart's beating fast, like it's a four on the floor
My foot's on the gas, don't try and open the door

Can you keep a secret? I once was just like you
Get up in a gaudy leisure suit with a tacky Fu Manchu
I walked into the discotheque and soon became a nervous wreque
Frustrated and alone, with an air of cheap cologne
I wouldn't wish that kind of humiliation upon any other living soul
But you seem rather shameless
When you resuscitate, you must tell me—what was your goal?

Repeat chorus etc etc