S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y Night

I'm not sure exactly how it all started. One minute my daughter and I are at the table eating our mega-comfort cheese, bacon and sour cream laden - nay, burdened - baked potatoes and the next I'm talking about how when I was a young 'un of around eight or nine, the Bay City Rollers were the big one-hit wonder (yeah, they had a second release, but nobody remembers it) of my time. Next thing I know, I've launched into a hearty rendition of "Saturday Night" that even has the 13 month old dancing. Of course, give him any kind of a perky rhythm and he's a dancing fool. I was surprised at the number of words I could sing:

"Oh, keep on dancin' to the rock & roll
On Saturday night, Saturday night.
Dancin' to the rhythm of the heart and soul,
Saturday night, Saturday night."

Now for this next part you've got to throw your head back and bray like a Missouri Mule.

"I-yi-yi-yi just can't wait.
I-yi-yi-yi got a date."

Now we do the white man's head bob. Remember, at the time men's pop hairstyles were rather...effeminate, so one must bob to best show off the cut and blow dry.

"Well, that good ol' rock and roll old show I gotta go [huh?]
Saturday night, Saturday night.
Gonna rock it up, roll it up, do it all, have a ball.
Saturday night, Saturday night.
S-s-s-saturday night. S-s-s-Saturday night."

And, then, of course. The chant.

Ah, that was fun.

On the other end of the spectrum, I ran across an old Edna St. Vincent Millay poem (1917) and thought I'd share it.

(and it goes a little something like this:)

When the Year Grows Old

I cannot but remember
When the year grows old -
October - November -
How she disliked the cold!

She used to watch the swallows
Go down across the sky.
And turn from the window
With a little sharp sigh.

And often when the brown leaves
Were brittle on the ground,
And the wind in the chimney
Made a melancholy sound,

She had a look about her
That I wish I could forget -
The look of a scared thing
Sitting in a net!

Oh, beautiful at nightfall
The soft spitting snow!
And beautiful the bare boughs
Rubbing to and fro!

But the roaring of the fire,
And the warmth of fur,
And the boiling of the kettle
Were beautiful to her!

I cannot but remember
When the year grows old -
October - November -
How she disliked the cold!