Murder on the Dancefloor
At teenage dances, girls were eyed,
as they lined the other side,
I would sit alone, little Jack Horner,
like Baby put in the corner,
“Don’t want to dance”, I lied.
In coloured dreams, my body flows,
swaying where the music goes,
by shimmering moonlight, in silent verse,
dancing freely, free of the curse,
treading on no one’s toes.
The night’s fever comes on thickly,
in my dreams, I’m on Strictly;
Fab-u-lous, Len says that it’s a seven
Craig says ten, Bruno eleven,
morning comes too quickly.
Balls! All that glitters is not gold,
got two left feet, I’ve been told,
no end of kicking by Latin muscle,
turns me into Darcey Bussell,
my body feels stiff and old.
Nor a cloak of flashing sequins,
less Sleep, more Shakin’ Stevens,
not even the might of great Jehovah,
could whip me into Pavlova,
as my balance weakens.
Like flogging a dead horse indeed,
a reluctant dressage steed,
a titanic struggle, a sinking ship,
it’s not a fair crack of the whip,
my body’s gone to seed.
Good poem . When it comes to dancing, I confine myself to the dream version where l'm surprisingly good!
I echo Ali's comment, Jarlath but add how it tumbled, as if you were pouring it, a compliment intended, it has an energy and flow that heightens the transition from wistful memory and humour..
Wow! I loved this, I like the way it switches back and forth between lighthearted humour and wistful melancholy. Well done, thank you.