I want to dance for money.

I want to dance for money.

After that hot summer night in Greece,

I would have tucked the euros into my neon bikini,

walked down the strip, to buy some shells by the sea.

Drink my coffee for free

while lying on the beach

before I head home to Reality.

Where I am not a dancer, but a PA.

And I am safe and have a wage.

But, oh, what I would give for one night

to put on that white dress again

with the low neckline and dirtied hem.

And dance for them.

To have the paper stick to my skin,

golden and glistening.

I want to dance for money.

But it is never as simple as that, is it?