You spin; you twirl; you flit about,
possessed of trenchant style.
You dance the dance the others do,
far better by a mile.
And as you blithely dominate,
you condescend to smile
upon the fellow revelers you've
enchanted and beguiled.
They do not know; they cannot know;
and you are in denial:
For all your skill, and all your might,
your soul's been scarred by bile.
The tune once called, the others step,
so you quick to the tile.
Why is it that you've never asked
if dancing is worthwhile?
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