The muse of motion sadly sits
This generation out,
Appalled at how the vandals
Turn her rhythms all about.
No more the lissome graces
Of the waltz and minuet,
Now muffled in the downbeat
Of the madly modern set,
Who writhe in hyphenated stance
To stare with listless eyes
Across the artificial gulf
Where famished pleasure lies.
But all this banal mummery
Will perish in the land
When men again have known the touch
Of her galvanic hand.
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