There's No Derv In An Old Dervish
When I'm dancing, quite frenetic,
To the shame of son and daughter,
Don't they know that it's genetic,
In my chromosomes and water?
Need they look as if they're scalded
By my paunch, and whirling bald head?
At their weddings, my gyrations
May cause mirth, offence or shame.
St. Vitus bites the old relations
But it's biology to blame:
Have your first stone ready, cast it –
Jigs to Jagger mean I'm past it.
Aristotle, also Plato,
When they were both ancient gents,
Messed up with the Mashed Potato:
They were a pair of impotents.
Philosophy may make men giants:
Not so disco, so says science.
Here's to Donna Summer, Kurt Weill,
Chubby Checker, Lionel Blair,
Those whose tunes show I'm infertile
Dancing on without a care:
When my ageing limbs are frantic,
Young girls won't find me romantic.
Gordon Brown is on the dance-floor,
Has teen spirit, loves Nirvana,
But his hawk is not a handsaw:
He won't be the top banana.
Give him space and play his record.
He knows that his flag's not chequered.
Read the Telegraph article here