Salome Maloney

I was walking down oxford road Dressed in what they call the mode I could hear them spinning all their smash hits At the mecca of the modern dance, the Ritz My feet foxtrotted My shoulders did the shimmy The bouncer on the door said "a gimme, gimme, gimme" I gave 'em the tickets, they gave me the shits No healthy arguments... in the Ritz Standing by the cig' machine, who did i see In lurex and terylene, she hypnotised me I asked her name, she said it's... "Salome Maloney, queen of the Ritz" Lacquered in a beehive Her barnet didn't budge Wet-look lips, she smiled as sweet as fudge She had a number on her back And sequins on her tits The sartorial requirements For females in the Ritz A man making like Fred Astaire Complete with spats and tails A Douglas Fairbanks moustache Dirty fingernails Whose snide innuendo was as subtle as the blitz Waltzed off with Salome in his greasy little mitts Standing in the dandruff light Trying to get pissed Amongst the head-lice, old spice, Brut and body mist How can she be seen dead Dancing with that tit Her being Salome, el supremo of the Ritz Tables flew, bottles broke The bouncers shouted "lumber" The dummy got too chummy In a Bing Crosby number The bouncers said it's suicide Trying to get your mitts On Salome Maloney, the queen of the Ritz When the ambulances came She was lying on the deck She'd fell off her stiletto heels And broke her fucking neck The band threw down their instruments The management threw fits She's dead. she don't bring the business to the Ritz The over twenty-one's night said it was a shame The divorcee club will never be the same Joe Loss killed himself and Vic Sylvester quit When the death dance drama did away with the Ritz When the last waltz withered And the quickstep stopped The ladies excuse me was permanently blocked And mecca make a living Selling little bits Of Salome Maloney In the wreckage of the Ritz