Dances are dances unless they are not
You swing and you sway, a corpse hung to rot
Their mocking laughter rises, a low-ringing dirge
That heart in a cage of meat gives jostle and lurch
Watch as poets wash your feet with their hair
Trying to grasp beyond means, withering, their stares
Ladies don ribbons, men brush lapels
Here in maddest courtship the emptiest dwell
Grim are smiles in a masquerade for plenty
Death becomes more than deterrent for many
Sour teeth bare, let all behold such a smile!
Titter and chuckle, make polite all the while
Until in that final stretch, undeath is revealed
And they to bed, churned in earth do steal

Penned by my hand on the 16th of Chronos, in the year 641 AF.