the hands are reaching for the three and the twelvenbut the limbs in the light aren't fadingntangled figures remain stained just to spitenthe secret life she's paradingnsilent sin can speak and sing you the waysna cabaret where secondhand hearts can playna classic dance between the fringe and the fraynwhere the hips can playn(she's going to get it, she's going to get it)nnromance in a slow dancenat the scene of a scarnlaces, lovers, and heartsnsilhouettes (she's going to get it)ntake a chance (she's going to get it)nmake the heat in the sheetsnlike no one cannnshe shakes and makes her whispers barely discretenwhile the pace and the breath start to quickenna foreign shadow slowly enters in the roomnto prove that he's not the victimnthey dance in the dark, locking rhythms with artna fragile cliche burns at the seamsna dash of it's passionate, a violent flashnand it puts an end to all that's obscenen(she's going to get it)nnromance in a slow dancenat the scene of a scarnlaces, lovers, and heartsnsilhouettes (she's going to get it)ntake a chance (she's going to get it)nmake the heat in the sheetsnlike no one cannndance like no one canndance like you don't know she's going to get itndance like no one cannshe don't know what's coming