The ancient timbers creak
As the rustic house is shaken
By a score of dancers roar
Each Thursday night at six
The enthusiasm genuine
No scorn for untried talents
Who knows the gem that could await
Neath an exterior unpromising
No static steps for these
Each time a new way of dancing
As the casks lie idle
And the cigarettes are no where
To be smelled
And there is no time
For cockalorum speeches
When the time is ripe
For dancing

Laura R
6-10-03