From Chapter 18 of Mr American by George MacDonald Fraser (1980):
. . The Lotus Club was in Knightsbridge, one of that spreading number of all-night establishments catering for a generation of pleasure-seekers to whom time meant very little now that the ever-present motor car could whirl them from one end of the metropolis to the other in a matter of minutes, and who were in the grip of the latest dancing craze which, perhaps more than anything else, had wrought the great change in manners and style and spirit which Mr Franklin had pondered on earlier that evening. The genteel ballroom exercises of waltz and polka had been invaded from across the Atlantic by the more intricate and intimate patterns of the Boston, the one and two steps, and that extraordinary fusion of the classical and the abandoned, improvised originally by dockers on the Buenos Aires waterfront, and now such a passion with the smart set that it had become a national joke - the tango.
. . Mr Franklin knew them, and had been able to hold his own on those occasions when he had accompanied Peggy to dances and parties, but like everyone else in Europe who was not stone-deaf he was aware that even these new rages were becoming old hat, not just with the ordinary public but also at the exclusive dances which were something of a mania with fashionable hostesses that year, from four to six-thirty every evening, and which were threatening to sweep away for ever that sacred ritual of polite society, afternoon tea. Even the latest sensation, the fox-trot, was positively sedate beside some of the ragtime rhythms which had come blaring out of the West, to be instantly amplified by every gramophone and dance orchestra in the land, and convince the older generation that Babylon and Sodom were come again. The spectacle of young men and women (some of the latter quite obviously unencumbered by corsets) quivering and gyrating wildly to the insistent beat of Negro music, with its suggestion of the bordello and the jungle, with a scandalous symptom of the new decadence - but what could one expect of a society in which even Bishops could be seen smoking in public?
. .
. . They went back upstairs and watched a girl in Red Indian costume and headdress singing, "The Pipes of Pan", a comedian who, curiously enough, seemed to have laundered his material for the supper-club audience, and when the cabaret was finished, danced some of the less strenuous numbers. But Mr Franklin could sense that Pip was missing joining in the more energetic jazz dances; she sat with parted lips and tapping feet as the couples threw themselves about, and he was not surprised when, towards the finish of a one-step, she guided him through the dancers to the platform, and slipped away for a whispered word with the black pianist. He listened, teeth gleaming in a great grin, and when the dance finished he struck a dramatic chord, clapped his hands to the orchestra with a chant of "And-a-one-two-three-four!" yelled "Hit it, honey!" to Pip, and swung into a crashing ragtime number.
. . Pip, from the platform, winked at Mr Franklin while the dancers began to stamp, clapped her hands, swayed in time to the music, and in a voice astonishingly strong and clear for her small body, gave tongue:
Everybody's doin' it, doin' it, doin' it!
Everybody's doin' it, doin' it, doin' it!
  See that ragtime couple over there,
  Watch them throw their shoulders in the air...
. . Around Mr Franklin the dancers were clapping and chanting with her, the room began to swing to the heady, insistent beat, the Negro pianist pounded ecstatically, standing up and bouncing as he hit the keys, Pip threw back her head and punched her fists in the air to emphasize the words:
It's a bear, it's a bear, it's a bear - oh!
. . Mr Franklin gingerly edged his way to the side of the crowded floor, out of the shuffling, stamping, chanting throng, but keeping his eye on Pip's impromptu performance. He was no authority on ragtime, or even on stage presentation, but he did not have to be to see how skilled she was, how practised her style, how complete her control of her audience. Hips swinging, shoulders shrugging, she swayed along the front of the stage, coaxing the dancers to even greater exertions, then retreated, laughing and clapping, beckoning them to follow, then teasing them by dropping her voice to a throaty whisper:
It's a bear, it's a bear, it's a bear - ooh-ooh...
and finally strutting forward again to finish on a magnificent, full-throated flourish, arms flung high above her head:
Everybody's doin' it,
Everybody's doin' it,
  Everybody's doin' it - now!
An evidence of how short our sentences are these days, and of how many :, ;, - and ... are missing.

Saying which, I'll always stick with .....

The use of a colon at the end of a paragraph is nice. Not necessarily in front of a song, but at the start of speech.