The sexworthy six fanned
out through the club, seeking
some ones to buoy them, raise
that shit up.
Between them
they had only twelve
dance moves, but they
locked in each place, and
they
grooved,
and they grooved.
At the end of the night,
straight back in HQ, they
recounted the tales: how
it all fell through - see,
this one was fake, or
stuck up. Narcissist. Or
that false accused, or
ignored
such bliss
as each sexworthy
one,
two,
three,
through
six described. Oh, a nibble
or two - but no fish. Line
broke, hook slid, boat
sank, net failed. And
the sexworthy six
call it all OK'd.
No they didn't
get laid, but they
were
not
played.
If that's
not why
we went out,
we'd have stayed.
Wait.
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