Poem: Walkingsticky

A tip of the hat to Magpie Tales and Lewis Carroll

'Twas silly, but his tapping toes
Did nimbly jive with rhythmic air.
Was there a chance?  Could he, too, dance
Like dashing Fred Astaire?

"Beware the walking stick, my son!
The polished shaft, the silver top!
Eschew top hat and monocle,
Lest you become a fop!"

But though his father looked askance,
The youth pursued his classy dream.
He spun and danced, and soon advanced
To join the ballroom team.

As lost in Terpsichorean thought,
With props in hand, back home he walked,
A Bigger Jock crashed through the wood,
And all the path he blocked.

Grunting with malicious sneer,
The Jock said, "Football makes a man!
If you just dance, you must be queer.
Come, fight me, if you can!"

Swiveling to face the lout,
He said, "You ought to change your tune.
Your sweat leaves ladies passing out.
My leading makes them swoon."

ONE, two, three, ONE, two, three, in his brain,
He chasséd to avoid the charge,
And downed the Jock with well-thrust cane,
Although the foe was large.

'Twas chilly, but his tapping toes
Stayed warm the homeward journey through.
The lad was glad, when need arose,
He'd taken fencing, too!