Daphne The Dancer

Daphne, my sister
Proclaims she’s a dancer.

“I’m called to the muse!”
So she said.

She has all the shoes,

The tutus,

The moves,

But she hasn’t a brain in her head.

 

And once every year
I’m forced to appear

To gaze in a worshipful swoon.

As without inhibition
At the dance exposition

She performs her Fugue to the Moon.

It’s awful, that’s true.
But what am I to do?
I’ve really no choice in the thing.

For Daphne must dance
Because given the chance

I fear that she’d much rather sing.

 

© 2015  Steven Schatz