I don't dance
Not to this tune.
I won't prance.
Not with this gloom
Two left feet drag like cement bags
Across the room
Old bags with scabs.
Scoweling laughter , certain of my doom
Broken knees like jack knifed trees
I'm threw
So I will pick up my bags.
Lace my cement shoes
And tell the old hags with their scowls
And their gloom

That still I dance.
Across the room