We just want to send you this one little note
To thank you for all of the dances you wrote
And the ones that you cued
And we have pursued

Choreography is just one of those words
That tries to describe how we dance
To the Hurds

It's a matter of timing
Too fast or too slow
If we don't get it right
Not all will know

But I think it's the styling
That keeps us all smiling
If we sway to the beat
Who cares about feet

The girls do the tough stuff
And keep boys in check
While they're looking at shoes
And straining their neck

When they all start leading
What George seems to be reading
From a book I don't know
We'll all do our best
To Get on with the show
If we don't get it right
We'll still dance all night

But it could be a very quiet ride home
As cold as Pam's last vacation in Nome
But I'm certain that it will all be okay
Because my girl will still love me
At the end of the day

So we will all try our best
But sit out the rest
And be part of a gang
Where dancing's the bang

We've all had a ball
While way cross the Hall
Was Pamela Hurd
Enjoying it all

Our dancing is everything
But there's still more good news
Tomorrow she's shopping
For a pair of those shoes

...She says with those new shoes "we'll get a lot more action with a little more traction"

Round Dancing 

The steps that once we strove to learn
No longer plague our feet;
Wing, whisk, corte’, and telemark
We think we’ve got them beat.
But dance, like life, does not stand still
There’s always some new test
To keep us ever on our toes
Just when we’d like a rest.
We listen to the music
Think we’ve found the samba beat
We bota fogo, volta, roll
But forget our Latin feet.
In waltz we try to emulate
Some ballroom dancing style
To keep our heads turned to the left
To always wear a smile.
We syncopate the back lock
And invert the hover cross
We try to make a throwaway
A throw and not a toss.
We tackle different rhythms
With a desire to please
In spite of our arthritic joints
And failing memories.
Our ears hear cues;  Our minds react;
Know what we have to do,
The message sometimes reaches feet
A little overdue.
We stretch our legs and tax our brains
We swear our feet are sore
But when the music starts again
We all come back for more.

-Rita Metcalf, W. Vancouver, BC