So… I’m afraid a gruesome, eerie, unpolished rondeau will have to do for today. That’s all I could come up with.
Carousel
The dancers going round and round,
Etched on a carousel of sound;
They would unfold their battered skin
With every skid and every spin,
But to the fairground they are bound.
For every game of lost and found
One dancer’s tethered to the ground
And in the ever-growing din
Its feet are cut.
By day their golden hair is wound
Around the neck of the play-hound
Until the beast would grit and grin
Absorbed into the raging spin
And on a growing, moon-bathed mound
Its feet are cut.
Encyclopaedia Vanitatum 