Two-minute poem.

Nothing was the same now that it was midnight.
All the pubs had closed and the blonde
from Dallas wanted to dance.
The boys of Dublin wanted
her--
chest exposed, nipples pert,
ready to dance.
The boys wanted to dance alright,
horizontally speaking. But what
they didn't know is she'd only give
it up under the mirrorball.
To get with her, they'd have to
groove with her.
Too drunk. Flat foot. Whiskey dick.
She danced her way home.
Alone.
Satisfied.

Now you try! Start with the same first line and see where it takes you. . . .

Poetry rawks!