The disco dancer needs a singer, a heart spasm simmering with the pulsing zeitgeist. The sequined torch song craves a *******; so the disco dancer needs a singer. Giorgio-beats-per-minute, the remix has been spliced as the belladonna exits onto the dance floor of Christ. The disco dancer needs a singer, a 12-inch ****** blessing the joyous zeitgeist.
Getting toward the end of my Ode Less Traveled exercises. I love triolets. Have a stack of old People Mags and today came across last year's obit for Donna Summer.