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1 Comments in Response to Globs of oil on Pensacola's pristine white sand beaches
Captain: The beguine, I hear the beguine. Deep in my heart is beating a wild tatoo.
The beguine, that fatal beguine. Recalling the tropical gloom, orchids in bloom, pungent perfume, and you.
Yes, I remember Pensacola, sultry desire, passions on fire under the moon.
Both: Those nights of splendor in Pensacola, lost in your arms, under the palms near the lagoon.
Mona: You were so tender.
Both: In Pensacola.
Captain: While the guitars played a haunting, taunting tune.
Mona: I surrendered.
Captain: In Pensacola-
Mona: Was I mad?
Captain: Were you wrong to be glad I was strong?
Mona: No!
Both: How we long for Pensacola again!
-Dames At Sea