the delirious dancing denizens
with wit and spit to spin like tops
when all must rest the ground does fled
and precarious limbs will flail a crop –
“what madness is this Frau Troffea?”
for whipped some up of the Strasbourg lay
frenzied are the initial thirty spot
on that quite strange strange summer’s day-
then, as a great fevered wave,
the hundred’s came and came and came
to crash in-on the unannounced ball
to bounce, to sway, to bray until-
perhaps St. Vitus himself!
came to cast upon a further spell-
a month or so does pass, a slower dance,
or the summer heat had waned at last,
the footloose mania until September had gained
a brief coup of the normal sense of man
the dancing feet, the writhing arms, the thoughtless gaze
all the world is not a stage
but became a dance floor just instead,
no more-
the town square worn bore for what she could
“Frau Troffea, what have you done?”
on the more the merriment the town is gone-
for now only a tale on the books to initiate
the mad revelry that beheld there fifteen one eight
by that river, a forgotten prance
the mad dance in the year of our lord, fifteen one and eight
has passed.

for reference as to what I am writing about… go HERE (it’s a wiki link, relax), sometimes historical context grabs me and asks me for a dance… this would be one of those times….