They called them the disillusioned youth of the age of all that
jazz-y pizazz and cat's pajamas.
It was just fine to rebel then because we had a revolyutsiya on our hands.
Of the industrial, financial kind, of course.

It's lookin' up, it's lookin' up!
Things are looking so sky-high.
But that was the problem, ma'am.
They were always just looking.

Grab some champagne, the ticker's in the living room.
Little Johnny's not going to school but he's gonna be a millionaire.

Scoobie-do-dat-dat,
Scat-de-de-scat-scat our way to the end of the-
(it's a friggin' apocalypse!)
Call my broker and tell him it's time to pull the hell out.
No glove, no love.
Less glove please. Less love,
please.

Darling Mademoiselle from les Armentières,
Hinky dinky, parlay voo?
It seems the sirens of war, don't run no more.
Oh, Markette, I've got my eye on you.

High rise that window and (deco)rate these walls.
Get me three,
au-to-mo-biles.

We were the cream of that stock,
the mo- to that -dern.
Boardwalk's never looked so swell,
drenched in the smell,
of the dreams of solid Fool's Gold.

There ain't no "end" in "sight"
or power in might for that matter
but this is the generation of them damn good times.

Speakeasy, doll.
"Your voice is full of money."
Wouldn't want it to flap, flap up into the sky
and crash upon diet-landing.

Maybe if you lost some waist,
we could have danced the night away,
rolled those numbers past infinity as we gazed at the stars
and called them ours.

It seems Charleston forgot to tell us that the dance would always be over,
the jig would always be up,
and the left would hold the bag for the rest of our days.
Funny thing, I don't remember listening.

Oh, what a vision,
such a glamorous nightmare.

Just a few forever decades, is all we asked for.


A/N: The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Go, read it now.