Dancing Like Fred Astaire

The discovery at aged seventy Explained to me at last The source of my problems From way way back in my past. Not just a clumsy country idiot, All my life there’d been a cause, A condition called Dyspraxia Had me firmly held in its claws. With the rhythm of a stick insect Feet that didn’t act like a pair But with a few glasses of Pils I became a teenaged Fred Astaire And the lovely leggy Helga Seemed to think so as well As though that dance floor Held us under its certain spell. He would sit in the bar Through the open door As I squired his wife On that little dance floor. Nineteen sixties style dancing Bodies seldom came in touch But when dancing with Helga That didn’t matter very much Just the flaring of her skirt Could set me on fire. Heinz was a friend and So I reined in any desire. Blonde Helga would whisper Tomorrow night he’s on shift Wait around the corner and I’ll come and give you a lift. Come and visit our house We can grab the chance To practice alone. Our own special dance. But, Heinz was a friend, A big daft trusting bloke So I just treated it all As an ongoing joke. We would still chat And we would still flirt As I treasured every glimpse Provided by her flaring skirt Enjoying those hours when My feet, that unmatched pair, Helped me In my mind To dance like Fred Astaire. The days weeks and months Moved inexorably on And my time at the regiment Was finally gone… One dance with Helga Became our very last, She disappeared from my life To beome a memory from my past.