The Learned Gentlemen hover round the fringes of the dance,
occasionally lifting their coat tails to squeeze out a fart.
They are mysterious and benevolent
in their frock coats and their velveteen breeches
with windows cut in the seats.
They say nothing, simply stroke vanilla whiskers,
squinting through opera glasses,
ruminating to the waltz's slow churn.
And so, we do not question, lest they sigh and leave.
And so, we dance.
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