I’ve decided to write a poem for anyone else suffering from the condition known as Spasticasia. Well, it’s known to me as that. Most people know it as having two left feet, or dancing like a drunken koala.
Dancing Fool
Can’t find the rhythm
Can’t find the beat
Can’t even find
My own two feet
Flailing my arms
Like they’re on fire
Twisting my waist
Like it’s stuck in a tire
Bump and grind
Becomes bump and trip
If I’m not careful
I’ll just up and slip
No I’m not dying
It’s just how I flow
Don’t dial 911
Just get on with the show
Misjudged a kick
Hit someone’s shin
That’s my signal
The night’s come to an end
All in all
I had a good time
You say my dancing’s bad
I say it’s sublime!
I’m sure this poem will speak to the hearts of all those with a bad case of Spasticasia, whether chronic or applied. (Applied Spasticasia is also known as bad dancing brought on by massive alcohol consumption. I happen to have both conditions.) Whenever you flail your limbs at a nightclub or a school dance, remember that you are the dancing equivalent of a stick figure. And stick figures are awesome! Embrace your lack of rhythm, for you are free… free from the bonds of tempo and pace. You no longer even dance to beat of your own drummer, as you killed that drummer and replaced it with a drunken otter smashing a rock on its head.
Dance on, all you flailers and trippers. Dance like there’s no tomorrow! (Seriously, if you pretend the world’s about to end, the panic greatly increases your Spasticasic movements.)
Cartopia 