Wolf spider's chancy
bite stops your heart ‘less you shake.
The old town’s cure: dance
to drums, upbeat chants.
Will you live (gasp!) should you break?
Never, not a chance.
Days on days entranced
musicians play, lovers quake.
The dead do not dance,
those with sullen stance,
alone, sulking, sad mistake—
cheating life a chance.
Deaf fools soon advance
with syrup wounds, clearly faked,
faking halfway dance.
Let's say we perchance
invite the foes, we their cake,
jump and jump at chance.
(There’s no cure, so dance!)
