Call me Rocco, the little brother of Saint Vitus.
I've got waxy eyelashes, a flexible pelvis
And can sort through the card catalog
Of all your mystical categories
With the power of my tango.
Are you surprised by my Latin thrusts?
Didn't you know you'd set off
These seismic rumbas
With your cocktail shaker
And mocha eyes?
Didn't you know you'd lose your balance,
You'd lose your breath
When my sacrum popped in want of you?
Doesn't it bore into your database
Like the worm wriggling at the bottom of a tequila bottle?
You looked and I danced.
You asked and I said yes.
That's not my phone. That's not my wallet.
That's my soul.
My soul is in my pants.
-- David McNamara