Dancing on the drink stained tables
Because there's no more room
Out on the crowded flimsy floor,
That is uneven and *****,
Drinks are spilled, then replaced
And smoke lingers in the air,
But what does it matter anyway?
There's music filling the old room,
Music that's frightening to the old,
But still too much for the young.
In here,there is no snowstorm,
In here, God is alive and it's 1955.
The fiddles don't sing, they howl.
The storytellers don't speak, they rave.
A hiding place to wish away anything.

-Jamie F. Nugent