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