A gyrating
moron twists and turns,
‘cross the
dance-floor he mistakenly thinks he owns,
Toward the
trio of voluminous beauties collected there
Half-stepping,
and laughing, and flicking their hair.
The trio
are blissfully unaware of the approaching fool,
Absorbed,
as they are now, with reminiscences of school,
Of
dancing, as then, to trashy 80’s songs
Older now,
inflated, but with more easily visible thongs.
The idiot sidles,
pelvic-thrusts, and slides his way
To his faded,
nostalgic, and unsuspecting prey,
Takes one
final fortifying swig of his J & D
And
selects his target from the ravishing three.
He shifts
his (considerable) weight and sidesteps into the group
With a
dramatic dance flourish; a boogie swoop,
Meant to
ingratiate him as one of ‘those fun guys’,
But his
ALDI Audrey Hepburn merely rolls her eyes,
Shifts her
(also considerable) weight so as to give a surreptitious wink
To her
(similarly bloated) friend, the dirigible in pink,
Who
laughs, pointedly and uproariously, at the audacity of men
Who think
(like the pigs they are) that they’re good enough for women like them.
So she
blocks him and with one last, delighted guffaw
Escorts
the gaggle away from the dance-floor,
From this
Pavlova Cassanova, this interloper
Who dared
to stare but did not care for her
So he sucks
down his humiliation, drowns the remains of his drink
And returns
to the bar; his strut now more of a slink.
Restores
bravado with JD, two doubles, both neat
And waits for
his next chance to dance; his next crushing defeat.
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