A 16-line poem.
Her Ballet Shoes
Her feet, she's a lithe panther,
Watch the way she spins.
If I have to choose between my life and her,
I'd have to say the latter wins.
So those shoes lightly grace
The hard, cruel, marble floor--
And the wind meets her face-to-face;
She gallantly wins the war.
A jump, artistic and dangerous,
She's a ghost of the unknown.
But, oh, yes, she's quite famous,
Those shoes may captivate you alone.
Pink and soft, they glide
Across the hard, cruel floor.
Behind the curtains, she does hide
Ballerina's shoes to be seen nevermore.
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