My finest suit (my one and only) starched and hung, will finally get put to use. It's the blackest hue as I'll meet your family (and include all of THEIR families) to make sure that you know. If this isn't romance, then Baby, I've got to go. My soles, they ache. I have to take a break. My two left feet don't bend that way often enough to work, but I'll insist and say: "You've got the wrong idea." I've practiced and polished and proven technique so you should know, but if I'm not romantic, then Baby, I've got to go. Maybe I've got to go through the motions to remind you that we're still moving because if Steve let me have my way I'd sing like a dialtone all day. So, hold on to our dance because I've only got two hands. With fingernails filthy, they really don't seem to work -- And you need to hold one to know. If that is romance, then Baby, I've got to go. If that is romance, then Baby, I need to go.