day TWELVE HUNDRED and TWO

Dance-Off 19 (for Virus-45)

Fighting up the food chain
forever fearing fail

Masks hiding people's faces
shielding who inside

We fling bleach at our boundaries
hoping not to snag a sneeze

So bring out your dead
we got this nice dirt box bed

As we limbo limbic low
down here below

Where lobsters boil low and slow
and the frog water's hotter

So what's it to be - eat? or eaten?
flea? or filet?

Sometimes it's the nipple
sometimes the t'ain't

This time may be serious
next time maybe ain't

We danced The So-So
then did The No-No

Now we're deep in The Oh-Oh
heading for Apocalypso

May not be our final fatal fuckup
but we're getting there

--Steven B. Smith