Poems and/or Drawings about Dancing.
220516
No sawing or dropping logs
I cannot sleep while on a plane
The lack of napping is a pain
Another thing I cannot do
No matter what I cannot poo
So when I land, and have the chance
I get to do my doo doo dance
Then throw my clothes into a heap
Climb into bed and fall asleep
211025
Zombie céilí
Everybody scream
Everybody yell
This is not a dream
It’s a scene from hell
Zombies are dancing at Copper Face Jacks
Not a single mask – not a single vax
Everybody dance
At the zombie rave
Crawling in a trance
From their fresh dug grave
Zombies are dining at Copper Face Jacks
They are eating fronts – they are eating backs
If you value life
Everybody run
Get yourself a knife
Get yourself a gun
Zombies are killing at Cooper Face Jacks
They’re hunting alone and roaming in packs
210205
Disco isn’t the only thing that sucks
There once was a dancer named Russell
Who knew how to tango and hustle
The ladies in town
Would always get down
And cha cha with his mambo muscle
190807
Self employed blues
I work from home in my underpants
With Brownie and Linc, I sometimes dance
And once in a while, I’ll do some work
Pay’s ok, but the boss is a jerk
180921
No “o” mon
There once was a gal from Jamaica
Who would dance and knew how to shake-a
When in the right mood
She’d bed a fine dude
But end up by needing to fake-a
180706
Water restrictions in Ireland?!?
It’s been so long without the rain
Sure it’s as hot as France or Spain
The whitest Irish has a tan
We’re now under a hosepipe ban
With dirty cars and dying plants
We need to do a Riverdance
Dry kiddie pools – ain’t that a bitch
While water sprays the hurling pitch!
170424
She’s a dancing machine
I really love my sweetie Jean
From one to ten, she’s a fifteen
She’s super smart, her wit is keen
She makes the hard work seem routine
She’s a great cook, such fine cuisine
She perks me up more than caffeine
She’s always nice and never mean
I’m not a king, but she’s my queen
150415
He waggle danced across my hood
Mr. Bee, you’re on my car
Are you trying to go far?
I sped up, and off you flew
Didn’t get to bid adieu
150204
Raise your fin if you’re a left shark
Left shark, left shark dancing on stage
Rocking out for minimum wage
Can’t dance on time, can’t keep the beat
His downfall was his two left feet
141225
Merry Christmas from sunny California
I gave myself a gift this year
I didn’t drink a keg of beer
I didn’t buy a box of games
I didn’t dance with dusky dames
I didn’t buy a brand new car
I didn’t travel to a star
I didn’t buy a motorbike
I gave myself a Christmas hike
140725
Aw, it’s you. I never knew.
I met her at a coffee shop
I didn’t want the date to stop
So we went out to a movie
Then the date got pretty groovy
Out to a bar for drinks and dance
Could feel the starting of romance
I dropped her off and bid adieu
Then realized “that’s my place too!”
1117
I’m over being sober
A Drunken Man’s Praise Of Sobriety
By William Butler Yeats
Come swish around, my pretty punk,
And keep me dancing still
That I may stay a sober man
Although I drink my fill.
Sobriety is a jewel
That I do much adore;
And therefore keep me dancing
Though drunkards lie and snore.
O mind your feet, O mind your feet,
Keep dancing like a wave,
And under every dancer
A dead man in his grave.
No ups and downs, my pretty,
A mermaid, not a punk;
A drunkard is a dead man,
And all dead men are drunk.
1017
I’m so vain
White whisker removed from my beard
It was not plucked, instead I sheared
It looks and feels a little weird
But there’s no reason to be skeered
It’s not as bad as I once feared
Onto my face some dye was smeared
That which was gray has disappeared
And so I danced around and cheered
1006
Tintinnabulation bitches!
The Bells
By Edgar Allan Poe
I
Hear the sledges with the bells-
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And an in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III
Hear the loud alarum bells-
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now- now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows:
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-
Of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV
Hear the tolling of the bells-
Iron Bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people- ah, the people-
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All Alone
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone-
They are neither man nor woman-
They are neither brute nor human-
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells-
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells-
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells:
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-
Bells, bells, bells-
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
1001
Your Uncle Sam is who I am
Do you like the man so tan?
I don’t like him Uncle Sam
I don’t like his stupid hair
He just doesn’t seem to care
I don’t like him in the house
Anybody but that louse
He’s dumb like a bag of rocks
He’s the color of a fox
His beliefs are so bizarre
He’s GOP like Babar
He helped shut down Ol’ D.C.
Then danced and shouted “whoopee!”
His tactics are so insane
He’s causing us so much pain
His bite is worse than his bark
Meaner than a great white shark
Why’d he have to crow and gloat?
I hope he gets a sore throat
He thinks this is the best way
He’ll see on election day
How he hates Obamacare
I don’t like him anywhere
I don’t like the man so tan
I don’t like him Uncle Sam
0912
Victory is Bruin I ain’t Lion
Detroit has suffered in recent years
Bankruptcy and crime have topped the tears
Enter Bruin Joseph Fauria
His touch down dance brings euphoria
Such fantastic moves from a Tight End
The team and city are on the mend
0906
Wait ’til next decade
We’re at that time of year
When Raider fans can cheer
‘Cause they still have a chance
At the Super Bowl Dance
For two more days at least
Until their hopes are ceased
0726
Is that an oil derrick…
There once was a man from Bakersfield
Who had a secret that he concealed
Within his tight pants
That ripped when he danced
And all were shocked by what was revealed
0624
Galway not Limerick
There once was a lady from Galway
Who met a young sailor from Norway
He asked for a dance
Unbuckled his pants
She saw it and said no fucking way
0407
Cthulpope fhtagn
The Nightmare Lake
By H. P. Lovecraft
There is a lake in distant Zan,
Beyond the wonted haunts of man,
Where broods alone in a hideous state
A spirit dead and desolate;
A spirit ancient and unholy,
Heavy with fearsome melancholy,
Which from the waters dull and dense
Draws vapors cursed with pestilence.
Around the banks, a mire of clay,
Sprawl things offensive in decay,
And curious birds that reach that shore
Are seen by mortals nevermore.
Here shines by day the searing sun
On glassy wastes beheld by none,
And here by night pale moonbeams flow
Into the deeps that yawn below.
In nightmares only is it told
What scenes beneath those beams unfold;
What scenes, too old for human sight,
Lie sunken there in endless night;
For in those depths there only pace
The shadows of a voiceless race.
One midnight, redolent of ill,
I saw that lake, asleep and still;
While in the lurid sky there rode
A gibbous moon that glow’d and glow’d.
I saw the stretching marshy shore,
And the foul things those marshes bore:
Lizards and snakes convuls’d and dying;
Ravens and vampires putrefying;
All these, and hov’ring o’er the dead,
Narcophagi that on them fed.
And as the dreadful moon climb’d high,
Fright’ning the stars from out the sky,
I saw the lake’s dull water glow
Till sunken things appear’d below.
There shone unnumber’d fathoms down,
The tow’rs of a forgotten town;
The tarnish’d domes and mossy walls;
Weed-tangled spires and empty halls;
Deserted fanes and vaults of dread,
And streets of gold uncoveted.
These I beheld, and saw beside
A horde of shapeless shadows glide;
A noxious horde which to my glance
Seem’d moving in a hideous dance
Round slimy sepulchres that lay
Beside a never-travell’d way.
Straight from those tombs a heaving rose
That vex’d the waters’ dull repose,
While lethal shades of upper space
Howl’d at the moon’s sardonic face.
Then sank the lake within its bed,
Suck’d down to caverns of the dead,
Till from the reeking, new-stript earth
Curl’d foetid fumes of noisome birth.
About the city, nigh uncover’d,
The monstrous dancing shadows hover’d,
When lo! there oped with sudden stir
The portal of each sepulchre!
No ear may learn, no tongue may tell
What nameless horror then befell.
I see that lake—that moon agrin—
That city and the things within—
Waking, I pray that on that shore
The nightmare lake may sink no more!
0219
I got the last word
Growing up as a nerd
My chances were absurd
Of going to a dance
Or having a romance
With the girls I wanted
Instead I was taunted
For having some knowledge
And going to college
Although I’m still a nerd
I have a lovely bird
And those who threw the taunts
Are filled with hopes and wants
0210
What a beautiful pussy
The Owl And The Pussy-Cat
By Edward Lear
I
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
‘O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!’
II
Pussy said to the Owl, ‘You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?’
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
III
‘Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?’Said the Piggy,’I will.’
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
0106
There are strange things done in the midnight sun.
The Cremation of Sam McGee
By Robert W. Service
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ’round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursèd cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ’tain’t being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”
A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked”; … then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
