The Ceroc Years - Number Five

The Ballad of Dreading Failure

He did not wear his anorak,
For that would not be cool;
The regulars would laugh at him,
And take him for a fool:
So at the bar he drank alone,
Just sitting on a stool.

He watched the cliquey ceroqueurs,
With a dark and dismal air;
A scornful look was on his face
Pretending not to care;
But I’ve never met a man, with soul
So painfully laid bare.

I’ve never met a man whose soul
Could utter such a sigh,
Whilst glaring at the people there,
Who laughingly danced by;
His mood was so dispirited,
I thought that he might cry.

I spoke with others as I danced
As on a different plane;
And wondered if the man would dare
To dance Ceroc again,
Or if he’d simply walked in here
To shelter from the rain.

Some never danced when they were young
And rue it when they’re old;
Believing it’s too late for them,
When passion has run cold:
And so they cling possessively
To the little left to hold.

In many streets in many towns,
There is a Hall of Dance,
Where often sits a lonely man
Who never took his chance:
He’ll redden with embarrassment,
Yet none will spare a glance.

And there, till he can learn the steps,
He’ll wait just to the side,
And nurse his dreams of what is not
And in the darkness bide:
The man had got the moves all wrong,
And so he had to hide.

But all men dance to their own tune,
By all let this be known;
Some do it with a touch of grace,
Some plod on feet of stone;
The Bold Man dances with élan,
The Shy must dance alone.