It’s the prose of a dancer, a slow one, a prancer
The lines stick to his feet
Elated when moving as if only proving
How bad he still is
His rhymescheme holds seven,
Bringing him to heaven so close to the rhythm of his soul
A dancer with notions mold on the shape of his bones

Now that the dancer gets older and age rounds his shoulder,
His steps turn a little stiff
Movements grow tender, almost without gender
He never acts as if
Still grooving and moving, his rubber legs are proving
It’s hard to imagine him on stand-by
He’ll dance till his death
Leaving us out of breath

Seeing him at first, a burning fire fought its way out of an impressive
Slender body, breaking out of a tight shell and I saw him
Clapping, tapping songs and drumming stories
Swinging right out with an insistence seldom seen.
It was a language of his very own

Timeless, with a meter of his own
He seemed fearless when dancing all alone
For a second he was weightless, zero gravity in his space
Almost gliding, leaving us no trace