It was not so easy to count 8 hours
By any other measure than tonic’d gin.
For best as we could, with Cabaret’s powers,
We could only tell when dancing should begin.
Addled by the shows’ spright, beguiling sight,
Bodies bound in flesh, and collar, pole, and reel;
Eyes truly outdo what words can scarcely write,
For to see such marvels: alike to feel.
But that’s not even the joy on which to dwell,
No mention of the one who ripped his pants,
The greatest joy: the chorus of the spell
Under which we fell, all night; we all danced.
In fleeting pain and joy, in music’s haze:
In dance, we spent our night. In rest, our days.