Gyration of the eyes and hips,
The longing of a thousand lips,
A table full of pop and chips,
And me there in the corner.
Five-hundred pairs of dancing shoes,
A playlist full of swing and blues,
And I’m in naught but tennis shoes
For lack of an adorner.
A dozen spinning disco lights,
Glow rods in their flinging flights,
Cast shadows o’er my lack of tights.
I pray I’m not discovered.
A shrieking piercing through my head!
I feel like I’m made of lead,
As I awaken in my bed
Where, yes, I am uncovered.
The Daily Travesty 