It’s an odd jig I dance, not quite a trot, nay not yet a gallop
A jig unseen, a ballad most morose, some might say it were codswallop
The fervent walls stare back at me, mocking my flirtations with the floor
Whim’s the word, aye sir we’ll party till the Achilles goes sore
Nature flings her protests at my jig, at my jig odd and queer
Fickle fingers point out the poignant, crafty grins squirm and sneer
Yet my tango continues, oblivious to mock and jeer
And my feet twist to the rhythm, compelled to endear.
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