By Ki Longfellow
The Gold King he spun in mad cadence,
Dancing the dance of the loon.
While Quicksilver Queen hooked up her skirts
To a queer androgynous tune.
The dancers stepped out brave and specious,
Each poled at their end of the room:
She corybant to the bite of the knives,
He to the click of the spoons.
The band banged away on a cymbal
As each cupped a duplicate ear -
& to the drum of a rumbling tumroll,
The King asked the Queen to dance near.
Ah yes, trilled the Queen, I would like to.
Her bell in the batfry rang blue.
But the dance, it isn't quite nisus,
and my taps, they are cutting and cruel.
To hell, roared the King, with this wordplay.
I need your bold snap and your bite.
We’ll spin on this dancefloor together
in expectant hermaphrodite.
He performed then a step so exotic,
A Wildeness of form arabesque,
That the veins stood out on his chap-el
in a manner lewdly grotesque.
Ah yes, breezed the Queen in a side-step,
Perhaps it is Fred what you boom.
But Ginger was not in a night made,
and I like my end of the room.
The King in his rage loomed gigantic,
His fear made him doggy of hue.
Barked he, if you won't then you won't, but -
Prepare for a somniate screw!
Yet, try as he might the foul music
held him fast in Fosse dis-ease.
While the Queen felt animus saucy...
as she shimmied with linear ease.
O! something aMuse made the Queen start
in her dicey dance of the knife.
A seraphic hand slapped her backside
to give to her reel dreaded life.
She stopped syzygetic and sudden,
Dismayed to see it too true:
A King on a string of stiff drinkle...
Oh the hell with it - I’ll clog over to you.