Words: Ann Passovoy
Music: "Plastic Jesus"

 In these air conditioned breezes;
 Here I sit, while my ass freezes,
 In the ballroom of this big hotel.
 I think our group has caused a ruckus.
 Why in God's Name can't they block us
 Where we won't freak out their clientel.
 Marcon Ballroom.
 Marcon Ballroom.
 Perching on my chilly plastic seat.
 The hotel must have said, "The train's in.
 Here's our chance to pack the mundanes in
 Every room around the Dorsai suite."
 At midnight when we're getting noisy,
 They move in some gent from Boise. 
 Soon he's hearing music down the hall.
 Then thirty voices hit the chorus ~
 Whoops!  I guess the plywood's porous.
 The little guy next door is climbing walls.
 Marcon Ballroom.
 Marcon Ballroom.
 Here we sit in exile on the floor.
 The fans will stand forevermore ~ sigh ....
 Nothin' human stops a Dorsai.
 'Cept three tourists banging on the door.
 Well it's one little man and two old ladies
 jumpin' up and down and raisin' hades
 Hearing all the music from our room.
 The final splatter from the pigeon
 Must have been "Old Time Religion"
 Understood enough to drop the boom.
 Marcon Ballroom.
 Marcon Ballroom.
 Sitting here we're risking frozen feet.
 The only place we can go next is
 In the lobby where the desk is.
 Always heard it said, "Revenge is sweet."
 Marcon Ballroom.
 Marcon Ballroom.
 Years and cons and fen may come and go,
          (May come and go!)
 One trick hotels will always favor is
 Makin' sure your next door neighbor is
 Someone guaranteed to close the show.

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