02 February 2015


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.


  1. Ugh, the raging bitch of an arsehole called sciatica. I know the pain.