| Jump up, jump up
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| Go on baby, shake and hop to the candy shop
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| Jump up, jump up
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| Jump up on your platform shoes
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| Well, she went and flashed him nude
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| From a trench coat in a white town car
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| Down where the Starcooker club is at
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| And glitter rock is back and Teddies stomp the floor
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| She hung a micro spoon
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| From her belly chain to flake her nose
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| They made love in the dressing room
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| Then up on the dryer, then a dirty pile a clothes
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| A well a well a well, now I can’t tell you much baby
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| While the jukebox is a blowin' the fuse
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| Very few can tell ya not a few can tell ya what day it is
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| Jump up on your Platform Shoes
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| She was a Chelsea queen that we called «Rococo Curlique»
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| Wrapped in alabaster skin baby rice paper thin baby
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| So you could see the blue
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| She hooked a rough trade john put together like a stevedor
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| A real dead end guttersnipe, a Norma Desmond type, a Pentecostal bore
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| Well you’ll find kids rotten with scabies (scabies)
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| We’re the fruit most likely to bruise
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| Aw, but I can’t wait to g-get every stitch of your clotheses off
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| Jump up on your Platform Shoes
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| Well, now everybody’s stompin' baby
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| Ampules start a poppin' baby
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| We’ll have a real good time
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| Blast some bawdy rock n roll
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| Pop a blue one for your Hey Hey Hey
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| Jump up, jump up, jump up on your platform shoes
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| Is everybody jumpin'? |