Struttin’ Your Stuff
You’re struttin’ your stride,
threads loud and bright,
pants huggin’ tight,
feelin’ just right.
Shirt’s a snug tease,
assets in view,
glidin’ with ease,
king of the crew.
Think John Travolta,
Stayin’ Alive on blast,
(beat thumps—boom, you’re fast),
head bobbin’ side to side,
back and forth, so fly,
every eye’s glued,
you’re the guy.
Boom, boom,
chakka, chakka,
strut’s in full swing,
you’re owning everything—
then your big toe-tip
snags a root-jacked ledge,
and… whoa!
Screech! Vinyl’s dead on edge.
Slow-mo hits,
a kindness peers from tele-lines,
cold sweat, hot flush,
face twists—no love.
That 33 RPM cool?
Spins back in reverse,
suave’s gone, man,
you’re a glorious curse.
Pants too tight—rip—seams cry,
shirt flaps free, untucked sky,
hair, once slick, now a wild fray,
Fred Astaire, drunk, in disarray.
Dude, I’m dyin’—
that clown nearly ate it,
lunch lost, Coke sprays,
I can’t take it.
Not evil, I swear,
no murder in my glee,
I’ve tripped tons,
fed laughs for free.
They’re fine, just a stumble,
a quick snort, no fall,
me? Next in line—
my shoe’s the call.
Peek and giggle,
it’s all fair game,
murder on my knees,
eatin’ crow, same shame.
BB Grey--musings 
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