People call me a stick-in-the-mud, but it's certainly not true.
Who can call me a stick-in-the-mud, when I polish my tonsils and put on my dancing shoes?
When I get that feeling at the end of my toes, gotta go in a trance.
I get an itchy feeling at the end of my nose, gotta sing, gotta dance.
Gotta sing, gotta dance, though there may not be much time for romance.
Gonna sing, gonna dance. I've gotta sing, I've gotta dance.
When I hear that old train whistle blow, or an ocean liner getting ready to go,
Like a runaway horse I'm unable to stop, I can feel my feet go clippety clop, unable to stop.
Don't stop?
(Gotta sing) I gotta sing,
(gotta dance) I gotta dance,
(though the neighbors say) oh yes,
(I'm taking a chance) taking a chance.
(Gotta sing) gotta sing, yes, sir,
(gotta dance) I've gotta dance, you know I have.
(I've gotta sing) gotta sing, and d'you know what?
(I've gotta dance).