Dancing In The Kitchen

You were making toast at half past eight,

I was trying not to tempt my fate,

You turned the radio up too loud,

Then pulled me from the kitchen crowd.

There’s flour on your Sunday shirt,

You stepped on my foot— And yes,

it hurt.

But we’re dancing in the kitchen,

With the dishes piled high,

You’re spinning me around While the coffee’s going dry.

We don’t need a ballroom,

We don’t need a band,

Just you in your socks And my hand in your hand.

You tried to dip me,

nearly hit the chair,

I said, “Darling, do you know where you are?”

You said, “Somewhere between heaven and trouble.” (hahaha) I said,

“That’s about right.” We’re dancing in the kitchen,

And we’re laughing too loud,

The neighbors downstairs Are probably not proud.

Let the dishes wait,

Let the whole world spin,

If this is what being foolish means,

I’m happy to begin.

Dancing in the kitchen,

Till the morning turns blue,

If I had to choose a perfect life,

I’d choose this one with you. (ooh-wah)