I’ve dabbled a bit more with metaphors here. Could probably have used a bit more work, but I’m burning the midnight oil again.

I OWN MY OWN DANCE FLOOR

I’m at an age, reached the stage, where I just don’t care anymore. I’ve lost my inhibitions, make my own decisions I own my own dance floor.
I say what I think, that some people stink Trump Ras-Putin and more.

Some lose their minds, can’t remember their lines, but I’ve kept my sanity square
I dress and stand straight, kept off the weight, keep away from Vanity Fair.

I’m out in the cold wrinkled and old, looking out on my young friends, They ask “Why do you try, why not live ‘til you die? they don’t know what the Necromancer sends.

I speak for the young I speak for the old, I speak for those not yet born, I speak for all who dance in this ball while our world’s being ravaged and torn.

Did I fail to mention who asked me the question, how do I gain confidence? I was asked by a robot, he thinks one day he’ll run the show but, I’m here to rail against, and when I’m stood up in court, the judge reads his report, I’ll say your Honour, please try to make sense.

All words Meadowhead Bard.