She said “Show me your moves,”
and I knew what that meant
so I hastened to comply.
When a woman asks to see you dance
it is a form of foreplay that most boys
are too ignorant to respect.
Not I.

I knew what I hoped that she wanted
and was ready to give it to her
and then some.
So I did the Spasm
and I did the Retch.
I did the Joust and The Good Ol’ Charlie Brown
and then the Snoopy
just for fun.

I did the Mackarel
and the Jack-in-the-Box
and the Colostomy Bag
and Feeding Vulture
and the Maggot.
“Wow!” she said with her eyebrows
and I knew I was in.

But I was in pain,
is what I was in
and the sweat was dripping
and the snot was dropping
and the blood was flowing,
pooling at my feet
and still I danced
for she was the kind of girl
for which a thousand ships
would move a thousand mountains
all the way to Mohammedsville.

So I kept at it
keeping all eyes on me
and her lips pursed,
probably impressed,
though, perhaps, less so
when I doubled over
and did the Retch for real.

She took me home with her,
cleaned me up
and put me to bed
though not in the way I’d hoped.

And I haven’t danced since.
It didn’t yield the desired results
with the kind of women
that I would meet
– or, at least,
those I would want to mate.

All of this
of course
should be seen as foreplay
to the question
as to whether you’d like to see my moves.