Now Is the Winter of Our Discothèque
From an early, early draft of a famous history play
Now is the winter of our discothèque
Made glorious Summer by this our Donna’s songs
And all the Hot Stuff the DJs played upon our house
In the deep bosom of everyone’s Last Dance.
Now do we don our hot pants and leisure suits,
Our bejeweled arms reaching out for more ecstasy
As we plan secret trysts, merry meetings between songs,
Getting Down Tonight with a hustle’s delightful measures.
The promise of ‘luv’ hath smoothed our wrinkled halter tops
While glorious Gloria Gayner reminds us we can thrive
Albeit deaf, by singing at the top of our lungs, I Will Survive!
And so instead of mouthing discordant barbs
That tend to scare off those we do deign to attract,
Let us raise our voices, and in curious praise allow
Our randy selves to loudly, boldly ask,
Club Fifty-Four, wherefore art Thou?
While this waxes historical, methinks it’s not quite the era I’m after. Methinks and hopes for less booty and more gore, heads rolling on the floore — that sort of delicacy by which the Globe season ticket holders as well as the groundlings will be delighted. Good for the purse, thou knowest, right mateys?
So back to the drawing board head I, for another round of headaches. Methinks a few licks with a tricky Dick will get my quill flowing again. Back at ya soon with draft II. Save me a pint of that thar bloody ale, if you’d be so kind.
Yours till then,
w.s.