My great dividing rod must have been taken from the Garden of Eden,
It is not seeing in believing, but you have to be believing to be seeing.
And you have to get me really drunk, and on the dance floor with disco funk.
Nodding my head to some real dope music, screw that Cisco punk.
My funky hand points diagonally down, and then points diagonally up.
My other damn disco hand squeezing the half-empty plastic cup.

And I'll do the moonwalk down the floor, tip my hat and dip my whore,
and I go to whoever my Great Dividing Rod points to, the tool from lore.
I'll do the windmill and invent a move called the windowsill, get slammed shut,
do that great dividing rod strut, wiggle that fat on your chubby butt.
I'll see some hot tamales at the bar, eat them, and dance like I'm on fire.
You think I'm some kind of liar? Wait until Watergate Scandal transpires.

Never listen to any type of country song, discos the only way to go.
Stick your hands behind your back and see how long you can stay low.
Because that's a thing you need when you're running from the damn cops,
like having +4 in jumping skill, so you have the sweet ability to fence hop.
And I'll follow my great dividing rod, to whatever woman is drinking liquer,
and i'll pull that grand old ancient branch from my pants and literally stick her.