04-04-2016, 01:31 AM
A Dance for Francis, et. al.
Refreshingly, Francis, you are ready.
No bargaining, no whining. Of course you
bring reform, traipse among the chiseled poor,
throw off the trappings of ungainly wealth.
Ready, when I come to call you to dance.
This cannot be a way of recompense.
I, Dag Hammarskjöld, must negotiate
an earthly peace, a new way for our globe.
Who could dance, anyway, in an airplane?
Yes Jimmy, you understand too, I think.
A quick take of cancer was my hello.
You watch elections to gauge if they’re fair–
you will learn that fair is never my game.
I mean, you know, I don’t really get it-
I didn’t mean to tweet you but guess what,
I could fake a dance like that, I suppose–
easy steps, rattling bones, where you lead.
Bullet-proof to the end, I love your heart.
A rope choker in the Bakken oil fields,
it won’t be the mud, the blood that kill you.
And it won’t be a derrick run amok.
Drop your tool belt and swap out your work boots.
Shake, rattle, and roll, baby- time to dance!
Sweat, folly, three kinds of nobility-
shed all together, you haven’t a choice.
The conga line is long, deep, and level.
I am the dust-bringer, my gift to you-
the forever black beyond tomorrow.
Refreshingly, Francis, you are ready.
No bargaining, no whining. Of course you
bring reform, traipse among the chiseled poor,
throw off the trappings of ungainly wealth.
Ready, when I come to call you to dance.
This cannot be a way of recompense.
I, Dag Hammarskjöld, must negotiate
an earthly peace, a new way for our globe.
Who could dance, anyway, in an airplane?
Yes Jimmy, you understand too, I think.
A quick take of cancer was my hello.
You watch elections to gauge if they’re fair–
you will learn that fair is never my game.
I mean, you know, I don’t really get it-
I didn’t mean to tweet you but guess what,
I could fake a dance like that, I suppose–
easy steps, rattling bones, where you lead.
Bullet-proof to the end, I love your heart.
A rope choker in the Bakken oil fields,
it won’t be the mud, the blood that kill you.
And it won’t be a derrick run amok.
Drop your tool belt and swap out your work boots.
Shake, rattle, and roll, baby- time to dance!
Sweat, folly, three kinds of nobility-
shed all together, you haven’t a choice.
The conga line is long, deep, and level.
I am the dust-bringer, my gift to you-
the forever black beyond tomorrow.