Since we were toddlers We've had the move; Something like a siddle, The sway of balance On the right/left shift. But a siddle's for a snake, A wiggle's for a worm, And my dog waggles When I return.
We stop, we wait, Frozen, and confused; We're a bit ticked-off We can't pull this off In a dance of decisive moves.
We've seen our share Of waddling sops Leave sidedoors On Sunday mornings. That's not what we do.
I've stopped a tot From toddling, Yet now I can't help you.
It's not a reel, a jig or clog, It's like a line-dance of two frogs. Then I hear Yeats' fiddler, And I commence to be a widdler. When you meet your doppel-widdler, Don't look, Don't ask, Don't take long, Just widdle past To the fiddler's song.
Widdle: Coined word to describe that annoying situation when you confront someone and neither you nor the other knows which way to pass on the street. Right, left, straight... Yeats: The Fiddler of Dooney