When first I saw you at the barre
I knew not what to say;
You posed beside the mirror
In a most suggestive way,
With 40-denier orange tights,
Your bits were on display. . .
From that moment on,
I’ve been addicted to ballet.
I fantasise about you in your Lycra leotard;
I dream about your body, so honed and toned and hard;
I’d love you to engage me in a little pas de deux
And I’ve heard you’re very skilful as a choreographer.
For you, I’d don a tutu,
Perform a pirouette
And leap around a dance hall
Until I’d broken sweat.
I’d frolic like a fairy,
While teetering en pointe;
Ignoring each torn tendon
And each dislocated joint.
I’m passionate about your poise: You are so statuesque.
On the floor, I do adore your agile arabesque;
I could be your Sleeping Beauty, if I had technique or grace –
But sadly, I would also need a new physique – and face.