still round the corner

we shape our minds to fit the thought of dance
our bodies move with only sluggish grace
and though the tired musicians set the pace
the end result seems an outcome of chance
the heavy feet that we have do not prance
we've grown too bored to make of it a race
and not a one of us would want to chase
a thing or person without pay in advance
there isn't much that can be done or said
for those of us who've given up the fight
the way forward's no longer there for those
who can't think clearly whose minds in dread
demand the snuffing of every honest light
they want nay they demand leading by the nose