| In the streets around here there was nobody tougher than me
|
| I was quick with me fists and fast with me footwork as you can plainly see
|
| But while fighting was useful for getting your way
|
| Among the toughs of the town where you could hold sway
|
| There had to be something that was better than this
|
| I was fifteen years old and I’d never been kissed
|
| Well of course she’d ignore me, her friends would all sneer
|
| At me bloody nose dripping and me cauliflower ear
|
| For it’s hard to convince in a romantic pose
|
| With a lovely black eye and a broken nose
|
| Where a girl is attracted to skills more refined
|
| Than the pugilist’s art, and so I inclined
|
| To take meself serious as a modern romancer
|
| And I secretly learnt all the moves of a dancer
|
| You swing to the left, you swing to the right
|
| Keep your eyes on your partner, more or less like a fight
|
| You just follow the rhythm, and you keep to the beat
|
| The important thing’s never to look at your feet
|
| Then a miracle happens, your mind’s in a trance
|
| Though the strategy’s subtle, retreat and advance
|
| It’s all about attitude, all in your stance
|
| Attention to detail, leaving nothing to chance
|
| Which explains how the pugilist finally learned how to dance
|
| Well, I’d waltz with a broomstick and if I was caught
|
| I’d pretend I was sweeping or practicing sport
|
| But I really had eyes for your mother you see
|
| Wanting her to acknowledge this new version of me
|
| But now everyone’s watching, expecting I’ll fail
|
| But there’s fire in me belly, there’s wind in me sails
|
| I knew it was risky and I was taking a chance
|
| I couldn’t retreat now, I had to advance
|
| So I swing to the left, I swing to the right
|
| Keep me eyes on me partner, like I would in a fight
|
| I just keep to the rhythm and follow the beat
|
| The important thing’s never to look at your feet
|
| But a miracle’s happened, and your mind’s in a trance
|
| They’re all laughing and cheering and looking askance
|
| On the night that the pugilist finally learned how to dance
|
| It’s a three-minute round and you’re back in your corner
|
| You’re licking your wounds just like little Jack Horner
|
| Don’t let your guard down, try a jab with your right
|
| Or you’re losing on points by the end of the night
|
| Then a miracle happens, and everyone’s screaming
|
| You’re pinching yourself just in case you’re still dreaming
|
| You’ve taken the initiative, you’ve taken your chance
|
| It’s the night when this pugilist finally learned how to dance
|
| In a bout where the strategist’s bridges were burned
|
| Where it seemed that his fortune had suddenly turned
|
| T’was the night that this scrapper was suddenly dapper
|
| And this poor fellow’s heart was still going like the clappers
|
| The night that the pugilist finally learned how to dance |