Back.

Because ow. And not in a James Brown way.

Sciatica’s stuffed up my dance moves;

I can’t do a twirl or the splits.

The pain of the Rhumba

(primarily lumbar)

Is starting to give me the shits.

There’s little love left in my Tango;

My Robot is rusty with risk;

I’m thinking of stopping

My locking and popping

Before I go slipping a disc.

I’m likely to slow down a hoe-down;

My boot-scootin’s way out of line.

I’m mostly forgoing

Large-scale do-si-do-ing

For lack of a flexible spine.

My Nutbush is nearing its limits;

The shake in my tail feather’s shrunk;

My Bird doesn’t fly

And my Sprinkler’s gone dry

And there’s bugger all funk in my trunk.

My verterbrae won’t be found Voguing;

I won’t do a dip or a spin;

No tap-step-ball-change

Will be part of my range

Until this Ibuprofen kicks in.