Shimmering wings of a moth-eaten gown
Sporting the frills and thrills of a year long gone.
In perhaps this dripping, infested dressing room
Your call is in twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes is enough time to wash your feet
And clean your hands, and dig under your nails
So you may look bright and early before the burlesque crowd
Imagine this scepter to be your guide, and this twenty, your god.
Vogue, such a fickle matter, upon an ephemeral plate
Like last year's best friend, and next year's chardonnay.
That's it! Hop on stage, and give them a show to remember
Or at least a show to wash down the holy water.