Under a streetlamp, in a midnight mist,

shaking and drooling, stood poor Twist.

A dancer by heart with hair to envy,

a player in the 50s wanted by many.

He was never a fighter, unless it was called for;

he was a lover, but could never be more.

No one screamed as they saw him grooving,

though after a glance everyone kept moving.

— By Joey Petty