The Dancers

This goes out to all the rabid hounds parked beneath the glowing hot pink array of Christmas lights that form the entrance to their fantasies.
Foaming from the mouths, bulgeing from the belts, a sight that would have any dog catcher's eye.
To all the 24 kt. doesn't-change-a-damn-thing-Babe Golden Circles removed from the Forever-Screwed finger and placed safely hidden in the dashboard compartment.
To the many heavy rolls of twenties that need some (en)lightening from their wallets.
This is for all the tittering flittering young fellers pe-peep-peeping over the Bouncer to get a load of the Circus of Jugs and Mugs, Kegs and Legs.
They've cum one, cum all to see a show,
Chug a beer, Meet a sex pro and
Hope to take 'em home
Not to mommy but to bed.
This goes out to all the poles that have seen their days and have been touched in many ways and that have dared to go where no man or mouse could ever dream or concieve.
This is for the brazires glued on with drool and filled with Cs or Ds,
That probably should have been As or Bs,
If it wasn't for the silicone disease, no matter though.
This is for the pitchers filled high with Bud Light ozeing so the dogs can sleep cozy next to the Bitch (Female Dog) they married.
While their minds are stuck repeating,
'I have a wife at home'
'I have kids at home'
'I have a job'
'I have a home'
Yet they'll temporarily believe their home is hidden in the shadows of the cleavage or ass crack of this dancer and the answer to their placeing lies at the bottom of this beer.
This is for the men, young and old,
Who have cum to see a show,
Meet a hoe and go as low,
As to grab a tit, hopeing their wives will never know.
This is for the sweaty admiresome men who leave their rings in the dashboard thinking it's a spy cam and if you take it off the good clean world and maybe even God, himself can't see what you do.
Thank you, if it wasn't for you and your bills, we'd be out of a job,
Love always,
The Dancers.