I wish there were a surgery for better posture

We have come
to be danced
not to dance.

I am a mosquito magnet.

The song is gone; the dance
is secret with the dancers in the earth,
the ritual useless, and the tribal story
lost in an alien tale.

Only the grass stands up
to mark the dancing-ring; the apple-gums
posture and mime a past corroboree,
murmur a broken heart.

"when my body was mine,"
a line read recently.

a sycophant is someone servile
who overly flatters a more powerful individual
for personal gain.

I am just slouching. 

There isn't;
it's just confidence
or going back in time.